


Fallen Heroes - Part II

by Alexbright99



Series: Fallen Heroes [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen, Original Character(s), Plot, Science Fiction, Some Humor, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-05 11:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14617263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexbright99/pseuds/Alexbright99
Summary: With Starfleet on the cusp of a devastating war, Tony "Q" Blue rebels against the Q Continuum in an attempt to help the Federation survive its darkest hour. Stripped of his powers, and good intentions aside, he's confronted by his limitations and mortality. How can one young man save entire worlds? *Reading Part I isn't required to enjoy Part II*





	1. Prologue

Screeching metal and a distant thud wake Ensign Marc Lucas from his sleep. He opens his eyes, but sees only the same darkness as when they were closed. The air is cold yet thick and scarcity of oxygen causes the now awake ensign to breathe rapidly. As he lies on his back, ominous groaning of structurally porous alloy surrounds him, like long-forgotten creatures of the sea calling to him. He has no idea of where he is, but one thing is certain: this is not his bunk aboard the USS _Kennedy_.

With the _Kennedy_ now on his mind, he starts to remember bits and pieces of how he ended up here. The _Kennedy_ , the _Wolf_ , the _Sundance_ , and the _Satellite_ were sent to Station A-12 for a diplomatic meeting with the Altonoids—a meeting that had gone horribly wrong, almost from the get-go. In a swift, strategic move, the Altonoids had attacked the small fleet and taken the diplomatic delegation hostage, including both the captain and the first officer of the _Kennedy_.

_Why is it so dark in here?_ He can hear phaser fire and screaming people in the distance, adding to the atmosphere of claustrophobia. He tries to move, which instantly causes sharp pains to shoot up his spinal cord. Gasping for the little air left in this dark chamber, he immediately reaches for the source of pain, his hands inadvertently striking the wall of rubble that has engulfed his lower body. Several of his fingers on both hands break, accompanied by a nauseating sound of cracking bones. Unable to hold back a primal scream, he quickly retracts his hands and summons all his inner courage to prevent himself from panicking. Difficult as it may be, he forces himself to concentrate on remembering the events that brought him here.

Marc Lucas, a tall, twenty-one-year-old Latino, was part of one of the many security teams sent to Station A-12 from the battling starships in an effort to release the captured officers. Their goal was simple: find the shield generator preventing hostages from being beamed to safety and destroy it by any means necessary. Unfortunately, they had not succeeded. Chief of Security Lieutenant Appels and the kind Doctor Van Oers were all that remained of his ill-fated squad when he had sustained a severe phaser injury to his leg, rendering him immobile. Lt. Appels and Dr. Van Oers, having no choice but to leave him behind, had concealed him in an abandoned maintenance tube. This is where he must be now.

The pain in his spine has gone, though that’s not the least bit comforting now that his hands hurt like hell. He doesn’t even want to think about how it is possible for his legs to be devoid of pain, buried as they are. Once again, he tries to move, but his spine sends up another sharp bolt of intense agony. Despite the cold, a pool of perspiration has formed beneath him. The screaming and phaser fire are getting closer, even beginning to drown out the roars of buckling metal that have been echoing throughout the station ever since he woke up.

_All right, Marc. Stay calm. There was a way in, so there has to be a way out._ A loud clunk, distant, yet not nearly as distant as all previous sounds, startles him and advances his rapid breathing to outright hyperventilation. Somewhere in this labyrinth of maintenance tubes, a hatch has been opened, and he hears unpleasant voices growling orders, echoing off the tube walls. While impossible to tell where they’re coming from exactly, there’s no doubt that they’re steadily zeroing in on him.

He searches for his weapon—or anything he can use to defend himself. As his broken digits scratch at the empty floor, he is once again reminded of his painful injuries. Voices are closing in, and Lucas’ search becomes more frantic. Just as he’s about to give up, he finds a cold object not belonging to the floor or the rubble that surrounds him. _Please, let it be a weapon_ , Lucas implores whatever deity may be listening. With his broken fingers, it is difficult to identify the device he has found. He is too busy to notice right away, but the pitch darkness around him has softened, meaning that the approaching men are carrying flashlights. This erratic light provides him with enough illumination to inspect his find. As he lifts the device up with an unsteady hand, he can finally see what it is: a medical tricorder—and it’s dead.

He should scream. He should cry. But all he can do is chuckle helplessly.

Dr. Van Oers had given him the tricorder to mask his life signs, to shield them from the Altonoids. It worked, but something unexpected had happened. Only now does Lucas remember the full story.

He was lying there on his back, with a buzzing medical tricorder next to his injured leg. There was light and warmth. More than enough breathable air complemented an acceptable level of humidity. Practically invisible to the Altonoids, all he’d had to do was wait out the battle taking place both on and off the station, the battle involving the _Kennedy_. His only real worry was his increasing need to visit the bathroom—not an insoluble problem. His mind must have wandered, inducing a trance-like state lasting an indeterminate amount of time.

Then all hell had broken loose.

In retrospect, Lucas has no idea whether he had been hiding in the maintenance tube for a few minutes or a few hours, but the sudden impact was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. All of a sudden, the maintenance tube had shaken as if caught in an earthquake, the lights had flickered and gone out, and a deafening, seemingly endless growl of twisting and compressing duranium/tritanium alloy resounded with such intensity that it had felt as if someone was pouring boiling water into his ears. As the overwhelming mixture of noises had drawn nearer, the shaking had increased exponentially. Lucas had tried in vain to protect his injured leg, but the forces he was fighting against had rattled him around in the maintenance tube as if he were a mere ragdoll—a brittle toy given to a careless child. Just as Lucas had thought it couldn’t get any worse, an even more powerful impact had struck, flinging him backward as the maintenance tube bent and cracked around him.

Silence and darkness.

How pleasant it was to be unconscious.

He hadn’t expected to wake up again. And now here he is, wounded, hunted by men with flashlights, and unable to escape. _So be it_ , Lucas muses. _Like so many young soldiers who have died before me, my name will be added to the ongoing casualty list of war._ He tries to be heroic about it, but a sudden wave of sadness catches him off-guard. The notion that he is not supposed to be here, that he should be home on Earth, listening to his favorite music, having fun with friends, overshadows all residual feelings of honor and duty.

Several beams of light blind him and he automatically shuts his eyes.

“He’s here, like I said he would be,” a snarling voice says. “Can you shoot him from here?”

“I need to get closer. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

At least four men laugh. They are Altonoids, no doubt about it. Slowly but surely, they are crawling over to the helpless ensign, their flashlights locked onto him. _This is it. I’m done for. The pain will soon be over._ He would have closed his eyes, if they weren’t already. _Be brave. Be brave. Be brave._ Despite his forcedly courageous inner dialogue, a hot tear mingles with the beads of sweat rolling down his face. _Please, be brave._ He hears one of the Altonoids—not more than a few meters away—raise his phaser rifle and say, “Time to put him out of his mi—”

The floor gives way. Not just the floor under the Altonoids’ feet, but the entire floor sags diagonally and drops out from underneath Lucas. Sharp pain terrorizes his whole body—except for his numb legs—as he makes a free fall of at least fifteen feet and lands on the same broken floor. The pile of rubble covering his legs has dispersed, and for the first time he can see his maimed legs. It’s no wonder he cannot feel them anymore; they’re recognizable as legs, but that’s about it. These legs would befit a corpse. Instinctively, he averts his eyes. He hears the Altonoids cursing from above, still not far away enough to make him feel safe. In fact, they have started a slow descent to finish the job. The fact that Lucas is able to see anything at all is evidence enough of their proximity.

In spite of the pain and the sheer terror of seeing his mangled legs, Lucas forces himself to look down. Beneath the collapsed maintenance tube lies a corridor section that seems out of place. It begins and leads nowhere—it is too damaged to be of any use—yet Lucas can’t help but notice that the color scheme of the surviving pieces of floor covering and wall panels does not correspond to that of Station A-12. It takes only a moment for him to recognize its origins. With a level of astonishment that trumps his current state of panic, he realizes that he’s staring at the remains of the USS _Wolf_. It must have smashed headfirst into the station.

He can only guess at what happened to the _Kennedy_.

Four beams of light pierce through the settling dust. They have found him once again. Lucas briefly looks up to gauge how much time he has left. Desperate for a solution, he looks down again at the _Wolf_ ’s shambles of a corridor. There, illuminated by the Altonoids’ flashlights, he now sees his phaser rifle lying on the _Wolf_ ’s corridor floor! For a brief moment, he experiences a hint of elation, as if there’s a possible escape from his terrible predicament. Then he realizes that the rifle is too far away. There is no way he’s going to reach it in time. He is going to die here. He half-expects his life to flash before his eyes, but all he can think of are disjointed fragments of memories, dreams, and most of all, his desire for this real-life nightmare to stop.

A white-hot pain in the back of Lucas’ head puts an end to all his thoughts.


	2. Chapter I

**Starbase 9 – June 27, 2380 – Stardate 57486.4**

The last few hours have been hell. The five admirals gathered in Starbase 9’s main office have never felt so powerless in their lives, sitting at their table, tapping fingers against the tabletop, having reduced their communication to rich variations of concerned expressions.

“Still no word from the fleet?” Admiral Simon Winkler asks, breaking the uneasy silence.

“None yet, Simon,” Fleet Admiral Owen Paris says. The mildly obese admiral, based at Starbase 9 since his predecessor Admiral Bywaard died in the line of duty, is pacing back and forth while excruciatingly slow seconds pass by single file. They’re all awaiting news from the front—news they undoubtedly will not like. It’s been too long.

Suddenly, the image on the viewscreen behind Admiral Paris changes from the Federation logo to Captain Keith Harriman, alive and well. The admirals turn their attention to the viewscreen, which would’ve been easier if Admiral Paris weren’t blocking their view. He quickly steps aside so they can see Harriman sitting in the ready room of his top-of-the-line starship. The lean captain has the tired-but-centered gaze of a man who has recently seen battle. “Captain Keith Harriman of the USS _Achilles_ , reporting in. I’m afraid I have little good news for you.”

“Any… good news is welcome,” Admiral Paris says.

“Do you want the bad news first?” A nod from the admiral prompts Harriman to continue. “The Altonoids have taken over Station A-12.”

“We know, Captain. An hour ago, a smug Altonoid hailed us from the station and informed us of their victory. All defending Federation ships have been destroyed. They told us there were no survivors on our part. If that is true, it will be near impossible to ascertain what really took place there.”

“They were wrong about that, Admiral,” Captain Harriman says with a hint of a smile. “We have found three survivors. They’re docking with our ship right now. We can’t wait to hear their statements.”

“First damn good thing I’ve heard all day!” Admiral Paris glances over his shoulder to meet with concurring looks from four other admirals. His voice grows dark as he refocuses on Harriman. “What about the fleet? Where were you?”

Harriman must have anticipated this question. “Moments after we heard we were to provide assistance, a massive fleet of Altonoid warships attacked us.”

This doesn’t surprise Admiral Paris. Still, hearing his bleakest worries confirmed is as painful as he had feared.

“We lost thirty-one out of forty-two vessels. I am sorry, Admiral. We were unable to join the battle for Station A-12.”

“We were told that there were no survivors at all,” Admiral Paris says after a grave pause. “And we weren’t expecting to hear from you anymore, Keith. The survival of at least a part of your fleet is good news. Hurry to Starbase 9 and find out why Station A-12 fell.”

“Yes, sir. Captain Harriman out.”

As the Federation logo reclaims its rightful place on the viewscreen, Admiral Paris takes a deep breath and faces his colleagues. “We have a lot of work to do.”  


* * *

**  
Nedron System, USS _Achilles_ – June 27, 2380 – Stardate 57486.4**

Captain Keith Harriman stares at his faint reflection in the translucent desktop screen and runs a hand through his hair, which is graying at an alarming rate. No wonder, with all the battles he has seen.

He rises up from his desk and keeps his unfocused gaze fixed on the monitor. “I should’ve told them, Keith,” he says. “I should’ve told them about the exact circumstances of our survival. But how was I supposed to explain it to them?” He directs his speech to the empty screen, as if he were still speaking with the admirals. “This is not just between the Altonoids and the Federation; there was a third party involved. They told us to hide in a nearby nebula, and when we did that… they used unfamiliar technology to create a subspace well that drained the enemy fleet’s energy. They saved our skins, but I don’t know who they are.” He shakes his head. “I have to find out more about this mysterious deus ex machina. Whoever helped us, they might help us again.”

The three survivors of the Station A-12 disaster should be arriving soon, so he pushes his thoughts about this potential new ally aside, rubs the fatigue from his eyes, and exits his ready room to enter the bridge.

The USS _Achilles_ , first vessel in its class, has an absolutely state-of-the-art bridge. It shares a good number of design elements with other Federation starships, but there are a few remarkable differences. Immediately noticeable is the sizeable holographic viewscreen,  capable of projecting holographic recreations of people and their surroundings onto the bridge itself. The way it is incorporated, it has become a partial holodeck, making anyone and anything it displays appear as if they’re physically present. Though the deployment of holographic viewscreens isn’t groundbreaking territory for Starfleet, it has never been issued in this form before, taking up almost a quarter of the bridge.

Another novelty is the U-shaped holographic LCARS interface hovering behind the captain’s chair in the back half of the bridge. While the exact advantages of having a semitransparent LCARS panel floating around aren’t quite obvious to the uninitiated, the designers couldn’t resist implementing it anyway. For everyone who remains unconvinced of this bridge’s newness: its color palette consists of every tint of beige, giving the bridge that modern yet comfortable finish that is so typically “twenty-three-eighties.”

He doesn’t notice right away that he has the bridge crew’s rapt attention, because he finds himself transfixed by the tiny holographic wreckages slowly drifting among the stars that fill the front of the bridge—a grim reminder of a costly battle. “As you were,” he says to his crew once he realizes they’re awaiting orders.

“We’ve cleared the area, sir,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Ernest Baxter, the chief helmsman, says. “Commander Tony Q’s shuttle has docked with our ship. Shuttlebay 4. Captain Rinckes should be meeting up with us soon.”

“Good.”

“The subspace well has completely dissipated,” Baxter adds. “We are free to navigate.”

“All right, Lieutenant. Have Captain Rinckes dock in the same shuttlebay, and then signal the fleet to follow us to Starbase 9 at maximum warp.”

“Aye, sir,” Baxter says as he refocuses on his boomerang-shaped workstation.

Banishing worry from his expression for his crew’s sake, Captain Harriman steps into the aft turbolift. Once the doors close, he smoothens his already smooth uniform and lets out a deep sigh. “Deck 3, shuttlebay 4.”  
  


* * *

  
One short turbolift ride later, Harriman enters the shuttlebay as the second Type 11 shuttlecraft alights on the landing platform. The closing bay doors shroud from view the _Achilles_ ’ graceful stern and the infinity of stars behind it. As everything on this ship, the shuttlebay is ultramodern and equipped with all the latest bells and whistles. No holographic interfaces floating around here, though.

The captain walks over to the rear of the shuttles. Which shuttle will open its entrance hatch first is uncertain, so Captain Harriman strategically positions himself somewhere in between. After half a minute, the left shuttle opens its hatch—a big ramp that functions as aft bulkhead when unopened. As it lowers, it gradually reveals the aft compartment. Once it hits the deck with a soft thump, two figures emerge: Commander Tony Q and Ensign Emily Murphy. Tony Q leans on the ensign’s shoulder while she helps him descend the ramp.

At most 5’8” tall, the 18-year-old commander is shorter than expected. Is this the man who repeatedly saved the Federation with his borrowed powers, earning him the rank of commander at a ridiculously young age? His condition appears to have worsened since the last time Captain Harriman spoke with him, even though that was less than half an hour ago. Tony Q’s pale face contrasts with his dark hair, and that phaser wound above his right hip clearly requires medical care. Ensign Murphy—pretty, brown-haired, probably not much older than the commander—supports him, keeps his knees from buckling. Captain Harriman, notably taller than the two of them, looks at the legendary Tony Q, someone he has heard many stories about, and sees nothing but an injured, tired kid.

Tony Q tries to straighten his shoulders while he’s still leaning heavily on Ensign Murphy. “Commander Tony Q and Ensign Emily Murphy requesting permission to come aboard.”

“Permission granted.”

“Good, I was afraid we’d come all this way for nothing,” Tony Q says in a halfhearted attempt at humor.

Captain Harriman coughs politely before saying, “We’re currently headed for Starbase 9.”    

“Good.”

Another moment of silence follows. Once again, Captain Harriman is the one to break it. “I have scheduled an interview with you both six hours from now. Commander, I think it would be best if you let our physicians take care of your injuries first.”

Tony Q gives a sad nod.

Captain Harriman presses his combadge. “This is Captain Harriman to transporter room 2. Beam Commander Tony Q directly to sickbay.” A metallic “aye sir” acknowledges his instruction. About three seconds later, Tony Q dissolves into countless blue particles.

Now that Tony Q is off her shoulder, Ensign Murphy’s exhaustion is beginning to show. Before she can react accordingly, dizziness gets the better of her and Captain Harriman has to be quick to catch her. He’s not exactly quick enough to prevent her from collapsing, but at least his reaction softened her landing. He crouches down with his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” Ensign Murphy says, blushing. As a capable and fit security officer, she must be unaccustomed to losing her poise like this, especially in the company of a starship captain.

“It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot,” Captain Harriman says with his gentlest voice while he hopes no one will stumble upon them. It might take some explaining as to why he’s embracing a beautiful ensign on the shuttlebay floor.

“Is Tony going to be all right?” Ensign Murphy asks. “I’m no medical officer, but I could see he was weakening.”

The captain sees she is beyond tired and even a little upset, so he keeps using his gentlest voice. “Our doctor will take good care of Commander Tony Q. Well, I suppose he’s not much of a Q anymore.”

“He’s human. You saw him. No immortality. No godlike powers. Just an ordinary man.” She draws in a sharp breath. “I feel sorry for him. I think he underestimates the effect it will have on him.”

He gives her a reassuring pat on the back and helps her stand up. “I suggest you take some rest before the interview.” Benching his gentlest voice for now, he reverts to his standard authoritative voice. “If you walk to the exit, one of my officers will take you to your guest quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” The captain’s kindness has given Ensign Murphy new strength.

Captain Harriman tries to put the friendliest smile on his slim face. “Dismissed, Ensign.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

Once the ensign has left, concern pushes aside Harriman’s friendly smile. He directs his attention to the other shuttle, which carries the third and final survivor of the Station A-12 ordeal. A minute passes without a hint of activity from the motionless shuttlecraft. Harriman decides against contacting the shuttle’s occupant to ask what’s keeping him, opting for a patient attitude instead, and seats himself cross-legged on the floor near the shuttle.

His mind wanders during this rare moment of downtime and tries piecing together answers from what little information it possesses. The takeover of Station A-12 was a blatant act of war, and a diplomatic solution is unlikely. The Federation prides itself on its quest for peace among all species, yet finds itself preparing for another war, and will call upon Harriman’s combat experience. He will lend his expertise and fight to the last man, if required, to defend its citizens, homeworlds, and ideals, but how he wishes he could point the _Achilles_ to the nearest star and explore the quiet seas of deep space.

With a hiss and a metallic thump, the shuttle hatch begins to open, ridding Harriman from his somber musings. He rises to his feet.

Down the ramp staggers Captain Stephan Rinckes, his attire as battle-worn as the man himself. His uniform jacket is missing; his torn, command department red shirt is showing instead. Cuts and bruises cover the visible parts of his skin, and his knuckles are swollen. His narrow eyes, partly covered by loose, dark-blond strands of hair, are cold and bloodshot.

Whatever happened on that station, it wasn’t pretty.

Avoiding direct eye contact, Rinckes walks up to Harriman and greets him with an absentminded nod in lieu of a bloody handshake.

Captain Harriman suppresses the urge to steady his colleague and lets him stand on his own. Even in his injured state, Captain Rinckes has the brawn to fend for himself, and showing pity will probably not be appreciated. “Captain Rinckes, welcome to the _Achilles_. My name is Keith Harriman.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” Captain Rinckes says calmly. Gaze still lowered, he conjures an unexpected smile, which doesn’t match his worn appearance at all. “That’s an impressive ship you’ve got.”

“Thank you, Captain. Maybe she’s not as formidable as the _Sundance_ , but—” Harriman realizes halfway that if the _Sundance_ were still intact, the haggard Captain Rinckes wouldn’t have arrived in a shuttlecraft.

“The _Sundance_ was a good ship,” Rinckes says before Harriman can apologize. Rinckes’ insincere smile disappears as his demeanor hardens, and his voice adjusts to match. “She had a fine crew.” He rubs a fist against his tattered shirt. “A damn fine crew.”

Then, for the first time since his arrival, Rinckes fixes his eyes on Harriman. Those eyes… Unspeakable fear, unbridled anger, overwhelming sorrow—all wrapped up in a thousand-yard stare that catches Harriman completely off guard, unsettles him to the core. It’s as if he’s standing face to face with a man deprived of soul. Hypnotized by Rinckes’ icy stare, he looks into those empty eyes, unable to avert his gaze.

Harriman gasps for air before he’s able to say, “My God! What happened to you?”

Rinckes doesn’t respond. His mouth forms a thin line on his expressionless face. 

“Can you tell me what happened, Captain?” Harriman tries again.

After a few uneasy seconds, Rinckes formulates a reply. “Permission to retreat to my guest quarters,” he says without changing his tone of voice or his blank expression.

Questions about Station A-12 will have to wait. This is not the steadfast Captain Rinckes he has heard of; this shell of a man has been shaken by whatever terrible events befell him and needs to recover. With forced positivity, Harriman says, “One of my lieutenants is waiting by the exit. He will escort you to your quarters. Don’t forget to visit sickbay for a checkup.”

Rinckes begins walking to the exit.

“Report to my office in five hours for an interview,” Harriman calls out after him. “I need to know exactly what happened before I report to Admiral Paris.”

Rinckes halts, turns around, and says wearily, “I’ll talk.”

Once the troubled captain has disappeared around a corner, Harriman unnecessarily smoothens his uniform once again and mutters, “What a day.”  
  


* * *

  
After multiple hours of investigating, researching, and casting worried glances at PADDs, Captain Harriman considers himself fully prepared for the interviews with the Station A-12 survivors, hoping to glean vital information from their stories.

Right on schedule, Captain Rinckes enters his office. No longer scratched and bruised, he’s a different man than the one Harriman met in the shuttlebay five hours ago. He’s wearing a new, intact uniform, his hair is neatly groomed back, and—to Harriman’s relief—his eyes aren’t empty chasms of doom anymore.

Harriman invites his colleague to sit down at the other side of his desk and tries to come up with a considerate first question. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Perhaps we should skip to the questions that matter,” Captain Rinckes says, “We’re not here for a counseling session.”

A short, tense silence.

“As you wish.” Harriman drops his friendliness façade and picks up one of the PADDs that cover his desk. “All right, let’s take this from the top. Computer, commence recording.”

Captain Rinckes sits back and listens as Harriman summarizes yesterday’s events.

“The _Sundance_ , _Wolf_ , _Satellite_ , and _Kennedy_ were ordered to rendezvous with Altonoid diplomats at Station A-12. The commanding and first officers of the aforementioned ships, except for the _Satellite_ , boarded that station to commence negotiations with the Altonoid delegates, preceded by a modest buffet… What happened then?”

“The Altonoids took over the station.”

“And held our flag officers hostage, yes. But why were you and your first officer Melanie Simons not among these hostages?”

Rinckes hesitates before answering. “A minute or so before the takeover, I asked her to step out of the conference room with me.”

“Why?”

“To tell her—” Rinckes swallows his words and starts over. “For a brief discussion of progress.”

Harriman stays silent, hoping this will encourage Rinckes to keep talking.

“The station went to red alert,” Rinckes continues in a monotonous voice. “We found a way to contact the lead ship, the USS _Wolf_. We were to search for the shield array that prevented beaming out hostages, while our starships battled Altonoid vessels and beamed down troops to provide assistance. It didn’t work out. Once our defeat became certain, I knew I’d be valuable to Starfleet as a witness. I fought my way through Altonoid soldiers to reach the shuttlebay, procured a shuttle, and left. Last I saw was the _Wolf_ crashing into the station without entirely destroying it. You can read it all in my report.”

“What about Commander Simons?” Harriman asks.

This question catches Captain Rinckes unawares. He answers nonetheless. “She wanted to split up, thereby increasing our chances of success.”

Intrigued, Harriman locks eyes with Rinckes while asking, “Do you know what happened to her? Did you see her again after you separated?”

“No,” Captain Rinckes replies immediately with an unreadable expression.

After a few seconds’ pause, Harriman asks, “Were there any other survivors of the Station A-12 incident?”

“That Tony Q kid and Ensign Murphy are the only ones I know of.”

“Other than them. Perhaps—”

“Look…” Rinckes clenches his jaw and leans over to him. “All I know is that I lost some damn good people back there. I lost the _Sundance_ , my ship.” In an effort to regain his composure, he sits back and crosses his arms before saying, “The _Satellite_ , _Wolf_ , and _Kennedy_ perished as well. The crew of Station A-12? I don’t know what happened to them, but I doubt any of them are still alive. Altonoids have a habit of slaughtering prisoners. Every single officer or civilian on board Station A-12 who managed to survive the initial takeover must be dead by now.”

Harriman adds in sad agreement, “The estimated death toll of the takeover is 1,629. This number will probably not change; it’s the sum of all involved minus three.”

“I lost 173 crewmembers. That’s not much compared to the total death toll. And it’s almost nothing compared to your space battle, which must have cost thousands of lives. I understand it is your duty to get to the bottom of what happened at Station A-12, but you can ask Tony Q and he’ll give you all the answers you need.” Rinckes moves in closer again. “I will have to inform the families of one hundred and seventy-three Starfleet officers that they’ve lost their sons, daughters, parents, spouses, their loved ones… under my command. That is _my_ duty. So if you’ll excuse me.”

Captain Rinckes stands up and leaves the bemused Captain Harriman behind.  
  


* * *

  **  
Starbase 9 – June 27, 2380 – Stardate 57486.8**

“The following interview with Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue and Ensign Emily C. Murphy provides a firsthand depiction of the Station A-12 incident,” Captain Keith Harriman’s recorded voice says to the admirals in Starbase 9’s main office.

Four admirals sit at the center table; Fleet Admiral Owen Paris lingers by the office’s viewscreen, on which Commander Tony Q and Ensign Murphy move into view after entering Captain Harriman’s office. Tony Q’s appearance raises a few eyebrows. His skin is pale and he treads carefully, like a wounded man—something that should not be possible. A small text at the bottom of the screen reveals this footage was recorded on board the _Achilles_ less than an hour ago.

The two young officers sit down opposite Captain Harriman, who seats out of the camera’s view, and resemble two children summoned to the principal’s office.

“I assume our medical staff took good care of you, Commander?” Captain Harriman asks.

“They did their best.” Though Tony Q has had a few hours to recuperate, he sounds tired.

“How did—”

“How did I wind up here?” Tony Q completes the sentence for him.

It’s a shame Harriman can’t be seen in the recording; his expression must’ve been priceless. What _is_ visible is Tony Q pondering his own question. After failing to come up with an adequate recap, he looks at the ensign sitting next to him. “You first.”

Ensign Murphy hesitates briefly before launching into a well-prepared monologue. “I am Ensign Emily C. Murphy. I graduated last year, and becoming a junior security officer on board the USS _Kennedy_ was my first starship assignment.” Thrilled to have an official conversation with a Starfleet captain, she inadvertently comes across as a tad too enthusiastic given the subject matter. “I was in one of the many security squads that beamed to Station A-12 to try and recapture it. Commander Tony Q had also joined our squad.”

“I’ll explain later,” Tony Q adds.

“We were searching for a way to shut off the conference room’s shield when Altonoids ambushed our team. The crate I used for cover blew up, incapacitating me. Commander Tony Q, despite being injured, singlehandedly pulled the destroyed crate off me, and we left for the shuttlebay.”

“Why escape the station?” Captain Harriman asks. “What about your primary objective to retake the station at all costs?” Though these questions may appear to be accusations, Harriman asks them tactfully.

Despite Harriman’s tact, Ensign Murphy’s enthusiasm fades. “We did fight back,” she replies, “while we were headed for the shuttlebay. Tony… Commander Tony Q needed medical treatment.”

“Wasn’t it more important to do whatever you could to secure the station?”

“The battle was lost, sir,” Murphy says, fierceness seeping into her voice. “There was no point in denying it. If Tony, I mean, Commander Tony Q hadn’t pulled me out from under that crate, I wouldn’t have been able to fight anyway and you wouldn’t be speaking with me now. He saved my life.”

“And she saved mine,” Tony Q says, drawing back the captain’s attention. “I would never have made it out of that cursed station alive if it wasn’t for her.”

That remark serves as Harriman’s cue to ask questions he’s been itching to ask for over six hours. “Commander,” he begins in a solemn tone of voice. “You’re quite famous in Starfleet for being a member of the Q Continuum. Frankly, you’ve saved our hides more often than many a respected officer before you gave up your last shreds of humanity to become a full Q and live amongst your new peers.”

“That sums it up rather beautifully,” Tony Q says with sufficient sarcasm.

“Under normal circumstances, a Q cannot be harmed by humanoid life because a Q has complete control over space, matter, and time.”

“True.”

“And now you’re sitting here, having suffered severe injuries, claiming that without Ensign Murphy’s help you wouldn’t have made it off Station A-12 alive. How can this be?”

Tony Q’s posture droops as he struggles to say, “I am human.”

“Does that mean—?”

“They kicked me out, yes,” Tony Q replies, “for helping you.”

“Me?”

“No, not just you. Humanity! The Federation!” He lets out a deep sigh. “My fellow Q demanded I stop dwelling in the past. They’d allowed me to use Q powers to help the Federation because they considered it appropriate training for a human ascending to Q-ness. The idea that I, as a full member, would stick to meddling in human affairs infuriated them. To them, I was a valedictorian who kept insisting on playing with blocks upon graduating.” He sets his jaw. “But I saw it… from outside the confines of the space-time continuum. I saw the Federation was losing this battle, this upcoming war.”

“So there will be war.”

“You don’t have to be omniscient to see this war coming,” Tony Q says. “I mean, this was the final straw. Diplomacy has failed. Sure, we will try to resolve things peacefully, even after what happened yesterday, but do you honestly believe this war can be avoided?”

“No,” Captain Harriman admits.

Tony Q pauses for a moment of reflection and then smiles as if thinking about an old love. “You cannot understand what it’s like to be a Q, to have the entire universe at your fingertips, to be free in every sense of the word. I have seen places and dimensions beyond imagination and beauty… beyond anything a human being could ever comprehend, let alone experience. And it was endless, limitless.” The fire in his eyes dissipates. “But… I wanted to make a difference again. Is that a crime? Is that such a crime that it warrants taking everything I had?”

These are questions neither Captain Harriman nor Ensign Murphy can answer.

“So I grabbed a phaser rifle and set foot on that bloody station. Q tried to talk me out of it.”

“That is _the_ Q, who visited the _Enterprise_ on several occasions?”

“Yes, him. I couldn’t make him understand. He left in anger, and then I lost my powers as well as my immortality… And now I—”

The recording stops abruptly and is replaced by a young ensign who is as anxious as any ensign would be when addressing a room full of admirals. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he says. “The fleet has arrived.” Five high-ranking stares prompt the young officer to clarify matters in an almost apologetic tone. “You requested to be informed when the USS _Achilles_ and the other surviving ships arrived.”

“Make sure the _Achilles_ docks first,” Admiral Paris says. “Have Captain Harriman and Captain Rinckes meet us in the conference room on the double.”

“Yes, sir.” The Federation logo replaces the nervous ensign’s visage, sparing him the sight of five admirals hurrying out of their office.  
  


* * *

   
The _Achilles_ , _Tripoli_ , _Cavin_ , _Praxis_ , _Taylor_ , _Mystic_ , _Perseverance_ , _Adams_ , _Vertigo_ , _Sao Paulo_ , and _Chariot_ have arrived at Starbase 9. That makes eleven out of the forty-six ships involved in two separate battles at Nedron and Station A-12.

Spectators of the fleet’s approach have to admit this was another costly battle for the Federation. Sadly enough, a loss of this magnitude isn’t new for any of them—it pales in comparison with the Dominion War’s death count—but everyone realizes the thirty-five ships lost yesterday will certainly not be the last. To make matters worse, most people currently stationed on Starbase 9 have at least one person in their circle of friends and family who served on the ill-fated starships and who will never return home. People will gather by the casualty lists throughout the starbase, desperately hoping their loved ones are somehow still alive—a hope shattered by one line of text in a list filled with names. The only thing that will stave off their need to mourn will be fear of what’s to come now the Altonoids have instigated war in their backyard.

Most of the surviving vessels, representing various ship classes, look battered and in need of repair. With its sleek, angular design, the _Achilles_ is clearly the newest among them. Somehow, at first glance, it appears to be in pristine condition, even though she has sustained minor battle damage. Being the lead ship, she is first to pass through the giant space doors and enter Starbase 9’s internal docking area, which is capacious beyond measure and full of life. Work bees, shuttlecraft in all types and sizes, men and women in space suits—they’re all bustling about.

The _Achilles_ slowly maneuvers its way through this highly organized mess and halts near the heart of the starbase. This heart alone contains numerous offices and crew quarters, reception and waiting rooms, offering a splendid view of the docking area. Truly a remarkable piece of engineering, this starbase of over 13 kilometers in height (2,765 decks, if you’re counting) and nearly 9 kilometers in diameter.  
  


* * *

  
It makes you feel incredibly tiny and insignificant when you walk the passenger gate from a docked starship to the heart of the starbase. The gate is approximately 90 meters long and offers a marvelous view of the docking area by virtue of its transparent sides and roof.

Dozens of officers are currently exiting the _Achilles_ via the gate; Commander Tony Q is one of them. Though it’s not as prominent as before receiving medical care, Tony Q still has a limp in his walk. Carefully, he proceeds toward the entrance of one of the uncountable passenger halls. He’s quite famous in Starfleet, but at the moment he wishes he was any ordinary guy. Everyone is throwing him glances, immediately looking away whenever his eyes meet theirs. It’s as if they’ve arranged a collective effort in inducing feelings of guilt and hopelessness. He can’t wait to get off this starbase.  
  


* * *

  
Captain Keith Harriman and Captain Stephan Rinckes materialize in two blue transporter beams to be greeted by five admirals, who summon them to sit down at the imposing table in the center of the station’s main conference room. Equipped to hold up to several hundred attendants, the conference room’s current relative emptiness adds a twinge of reverb to everything that is said.

Once everyone has settled in, Fleet Admiral Owen Paris opens the meeting. “Welcome, gentlemen. By now we have an adequate picture of what happened at Station A-12 and the battle of Nedron. We’ve gathered to inform you about our next course of action. It is safe to say we have a very serious situation on our hands.”

Everyone listens as quietly as possible.

“This starbase is practically next in line for another Altonoid attack,” Admiral Paris continues. “As we speak, our best diplomats are attempting to reopen negotiations with the Alto Empire. You don’t have to be a pessimist to believe their efforts will fail. Starbase 9 will be put on yellow alert indefinitely. Every Federation planet, ship, colony, or station will have to be fully prepared for all-out war. Men, we should be ready.”

After such a speech, nobody dares to say anything.

Nobody except Captain Harriman. “There is something I must tell you.” This gets him plenty of attention. “There is a specific reason why part of our fleet survived the battle of Nedron.” This gets him even more attention.

“Explain, Keith,” Admiral Paris says in a way that prompts Harriman to feel four feet tall.

“We were losing the battle. The Altonoids had destroyed the majority of our fleet. There was no possible way for us to survive… But we did.”

“What happened? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Since he has the floor anyway, Harriman stands up to walk around freely while addressing the admirals and Captain Rinckes. “It’s a long story. You can read it all in my updated report.” Of course, this doesn’t really please the crowd, so he continues. “Let’s just say the seventy Altonoid ships were easily defeated, but not by us.”

This raises the few eyebrows that weren’t already raised.

“I haven’t told you this before because we didn’t know who helped us.”

“But you know now?” the oldest admiral in the room asks.

“Yes, Admiral Winkler. We’ve analyzed the data gathered in the Nedron system. My first officer handed me our science team’s conclusion minutes ago.” Captain Harriman halts near Admiral Paris. “Do you remember the battle of Griddle II?”

“Pretty much an identical situation,” Admiral Paris acknowledges. “Another dispute between the Federation and the Altonoids.”

Admiral Winkler chimes in again. “The late Admiral Bywaard commanded the fleet involved in that battle. Despite his best efforts, we lost a lot of ships to the Altonoids that day.”

“Yes,” Harriman says, “until we received unexpected help from a third party that destroyed two Altonoid vessels with great ease. Intimidated as they were, the Altonoids withdrew.”

“I believe the _Sundance_ fought in that battle and barely survived,” Admiral Winkler says. This comment was half-directed at Captain Rinckes but he doesn’t respond.

Harriman lifts his head and says with a barely contained grin, “The mysterious weapon’s subspace signature we found at Nedron is identical to the one encountered at Griddle II.”

Silence fills the room as the news sinks in.

“That third party we’re talking about…” another admiral says cautiously. “Are we talking about the S’Prenn?”

The lean captain hesitates before answering, “Yes.” He can hardly believe it himself, even when confirming it to the brass, but his science team’s evidence is irrefutable. “They helped us out again. I don’t know why or if they will keep helping us.”

“They could be a pivotal ally,” Admiral Winkler notes.

“All we know is that they pulled us out of the fire and defeated seventy warships in the process,” Harriman says while returning to his seat.

Admiral Paris has been quietly staring at the center of the table, reflecting on this new information. When he speaks up again, all go quiet and listen attentively. “We must try to contact the S’Prenn. We have to know whether they’ll support us if we go to war with the Altonoids.”

Everyone agrees.

“There is much work to be done,” Admiral Paris continues.

Everyone agrees.

“The three Station A-12 survivors will be given shore leave for at least a month, to give them the chance to recover.”

Captain Rinckes disagrees. “Sir,” he says—the first word he has spoken since his arrival. “I can’t just sit around and do nothing while the Federation is in dire straits.”

“Considering the circumstances,” Admiral Paris says, walking a fine line between friendliness and authority, “it would be best for you to blow off some steam. Don’t worry. We’re not putting you into mothballs.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” Captain Rinckes says without even trying to sound sincere, “but I urge you to reconsider. Starfleet needs all the good captains they have. Can you afford to let me sit idly by while the Alpha and Beta Quadrant are plummeted into chaos and, let’s face it, war?”

“You’ve got a point, Captain,” Admiral Paris says. Then, he notices Harriman’s mouth opening and closing several times in a row. “Keith?”

Harriman exhales sharply before speaking out his concerns. “What the survivors of Station A-12 have been through is… quite something.”

“And how would you know that?” Captain Rinckes asks. “You were a little late to the party, Keith.”

Harriman doesn’t rise to the bait and uses his gentlest voice again. “All I’m saying is that the emotional stress you endured might have a substantial effect on you and your ability to command, at least in the short run.”

Rinckes is unmoved by his colleague’s argument. “No, I’m fit for duty.” He addresses the admirals. “I’m forty-six years old; I’ve served Starfleet my entire adult life. Adversity comes with the job. I have endured the Cardassian War, the Dominion War, and multiple Borg invasions. I have seen much and lost many. I’ve already been through ‘quite something,’ let me assure you. I am a seasoned and skilled captain who is willing and able to serve, especially when Starfleet needs me most.”

Harriman isn’t convinced yet. He won’t soon forget the raw emptiness he saw in Rinckes’ eyes when he met him in the shuttlebay.

“You’ve never failed to impress us with your speeches, Stephan,” Admiral Paris says. “You’ll get your new command, don’t you worry about that.”

“Thank you,” Rinckes says.

For a moment, Captain Harriman considers challenging this decision. He chooses to stay silent, however. Once the admiral has made up his mind, he has made up his mind.  
  


* * *

  
A young, brown-haired officer examines an information wall terminal near Starbase 9’s docking area. She sifts through the passenger manifests until she comes across Commander Tony “Q” Blue’s name. “There you are. The SS _Hawkeye_ , boarding now,” Ensign Murphy says. She adds herself to the passenger list, picks up her baggage, and rushes toward the designated docking port.  
  


* * *

  
Commander Tony Q dawdles through a crowded passenger hold until a 24th century equivalent of a flight attendant spots him and guides him to the proper compartment. “Welcome to the _Hawkeye_ , Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue,” she says courteously. “You are free to pick a seat in the adjacent zone. I hope you’ve had a pleasant stay at Starbase 9.”

Tony gives her a short nod and enters the correct seating area. “Had a pleasant stay,” he mutters to himself. “I’ve been here for only… what, six hours? Four of which I spent with a counselor who seemed to have more problems than me.”

After evading yet another inquisitive stare, he settles for a window bench and deposits his fragile body on comfortable upholstery. The view is wonderful from here, and Tony watches the numerous work bees, shuttles, and starships continuing on with their respective businesses, as busy as it always is in such a vast docking area.

He feels a thump. Someone has seated next to him. Not in the mood to socialize, even if restricted to the usual pleasantries, he hopes that whoever it is will go away soon. She doesn’t.

“If this Earth is as beautiful and fun as everyone says it is,” she says, “I wouldn’t mind spending my R&R there.”

Tony turns to the familiar voice. “Emily?” he gasps.

“Tony?” Emily Murphy gasps. She exchanges the admittedly spot-on imitation for a big grin, awaiting his reaction.

“What took you so long?” he deadpans, and he looks out the window again.

In feigned anger, Emily crosses her arms and sits back. After a few seconds’ worth of silence, she gives it another go, “So you’re going back to Earth?”

Slightly annoyed, Tony spares her a glance. “Yes, that would be the point of sitting in a transport vessel headed for Earth.”

Another short silence.

“Are you headed for Earth too?” Tony asks while he cannot entirely understand why he’s continuing this little contest of asking the blinking obvious.

“Absolutely,” Emily says with an amused twinkle in her eyes. “What a coincidence. Of all the planets, we’re both headed for Earth.”

“Startling,” Tony says, fully intent on staring out the window again.

“Why? Why are you going to Earth?” Emily says to prevent that.

Tony sighs before answering. “Because I was born there. Because my father lives there. Because I have no better place to go spend my shore leave.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“What?” Tony says, realizing he’s not going to be enjoying the outside view much during the upcoming journey.

“Your wound. It’s more than just physical, isn’t it? Station A-12’s events must’ve hurt you in—”

“I’d rather not talk about that, okay?” He faces her directly. “I thank you, profusely, for helping me, for saving my life, but I need to come to terms with this whole predicament, with everything I’ve lost.”

“But you’ve also gained something there, Tony: a friend.”

“Yes. And for that I am grateful, rest assured,” Tony admits. “Can I look out the window now?”  
  
“Be my guest,” Emily says with a smile.

The _Hawkeye_ fires thrusters and maneuvers its way out of spacedock with steady precision. Thanks to the window’s reflection, Tony notices people watching him, ranging from furtive glances to outright gawking. “They’re all staring at me. My fly’s not open or anything?”

“You’re okay. Not all of them are staring at you. That guy over there seems more interested in me.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Tony remarks dryly. He rubs his temples and groans, “I wish I could be invisible.”

She will have none of that. “How many commanders aged eighteen are there in Starfleet? Really? You’re a celebrity!”

“I’m not a celebrity. I’m just a… victim of circumstances.”

Emily suddenly plucks two of the three rank pips off Tony’s collar.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m demoting you, Ensign,” she replies playfully.

“What?”

“An eighteen-year-old ensign attracts a lot less attention than an eighteen-year-old commander. You should change into civilian clothing as soon as you arrive on Earth.”

A lieutenant passes by and—as is becoming the norm—gives the fallen Q a look of budding recognition, soon destined to upgrade to an awkward stare. Then his gaze lowers to Tony’s rank insignia. The lieutenant blinks a couple of times, raises an eyebrow, and continues on his way.

“See! It works!” Emily says.

“That’s quite clever,” Tony says, actually meaning it. “You should get a promotion,” he adds, sarcasm kicking in again.

Emily places the two rank pips on her collar, right next to the lone pip indicating she’s an ensign. “Good enough?”

Tony chuckles softly. “I had a feeling you’d do that, _Commander_ Murphy.” When he resumes admiring the view outside, the internal docking area has been replaced by a typical sight for faster-than-light space travel: white stripes of stardust streaking past the window.  
  


* * *

  **  
Sol System, SS _Hawkeye_ – July 1, 2380 – Stardate 57498.5**

Earth is the most beautiful planet in the entire universe—for humans, that is. Vulcans think Vulcan is the “most aesthetically pleasing” planet, while Klingons think the mere sight of Qo’noS makes your heart pump like the heart of a wounded targ or whatever it is they say. But for humans, nothing beats seeing Earth from outer space, especially today. With the exception of sparse cloud cover above Brazil and Alaska, North and South America are bathing in sunlight.

Now the _Hawkeye_ has entered orbit, Commander Tony Q gazes at the blue planet and realizes this remains an enthralling spectacle, no matter how often he’s seen it. Although Earth is still thousands of kilometers away, it’s as if all one has to do is roll down the window and reach out to touch it.

“I’ve been away too long,” Tony whispers to himself. He can’t help but smile a warm, heartfelt smile for the first time in… well, feels like ages. Tony bets there are plenty more of those smiles being directed at Earth at this very moment.  
  


* * *

   
Earth retains its beauty when viewed from Earth Spacedock, which bears close resemblance to Starbase 9, except for one main difference: this station orbits Earth, whereas Starbase 9 hangs in space many light years away, in the middle of nowhere.

Having waited until most passengers left the area, Commander Tony Q and Ensign Emily Murphy roam an almost deserted passenger hall, which features a long line of windows showcasing Earth in all its glory. Even though they haven’t forgotten what their home planet looks like during the time it took to disembark the _Hawkeye_ , they can’t resist darting the occasional glance at the giant blue marble.

They haven’t spoken much since a few days into the journey as they enjoyed each other’s company without the need for incessant conversation. It could be because he is so close to home, or maybe he just feels safe around Emily, but Tony finds himself saying, sarcastically of course, “I can’t wait to see my father’s face when I come limping in.”

“I’m sure he’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Emily says.

“Haven’t seen him in a while. Been too busy gallivanting around the universe. I…” It’s hard for him to admit this. “…forgot about him, though I don’t think he has forgotten me. And now he’ll find me on his doorstep in this condition.”

Emily spends a few seconds staring at the floor before saying, “Consider yourself lucky. I don’t have a father to return to. He’s been long dead. So is my mother.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tony says, feeling like an insensitive jerk for complaining to an orphan about having a father.

Emily hasn’t taken offense. “They died thirteen years ago, at Wolf 359.”

“The Borg…” Tony shakes his head. “Nasty lot.”

“You’ve had a few run-ins with them.”

“Too many.”

“Your reputation is well-earned, you know that? Everyone remembers the last Borg invasion. You singlehandedly liberated a Borg cube, freed all its drones from the Collective, restored their individualities.”

“They pissed me off,” Tony says, simpering at his choice of words. “For years I believed they had killed my father. During the invasion of ’78 I found out they had assimilated him instead. I used my powers to free him and thousands of others. I… I thought he was dead, and when I found out he wasn’t… instead of rekindling our family bond, I ran off a year later and haven’t seen him since.”

“Don’t worry, Tony. He’ll be glad to see you. I just know.” She unleashes one of those smiles that could calm you even if you were the only redshirt in an away team.

They’ve reached the end of the passenger hall. “Shuttle to San Francisco is this way,” Tony says while halting short of the door marked “to shuttlebay 1.” Its panel indicates the next shuttle departs within five minutes.

“Shuttle to Lille is this way,” Emily says, pointing at the adjacent door, which leads to shuttlebay 2. She lets out an almost unnoticeable sigh. “I can’t wait to reunite with my aunt.” An uneasy silence follows.

“So I guess this is goodbye then.”

Emily nods.

Completely failing to find the right timing in order to keep the awkwardness to a minimum, Tony attempts to embrace Emily. Completely failing to find the right response to decrease the awkwardness a little, Emily simply puts her arms around Tony too. The end result, though quite funny to see, would constitute a genuine hug. Letting go of each other turns out to be considerably easier and they do just that.

“Thank you, for everything,” Tony says.

“You’re very welcome.”

The door to shuttlebay 1 opens for him. “Goodbye, Emily.” He walks through the door and into the corridor on the other side.

“Goodbye,” she says before the closing door separates them.

Tony limps through the corridor in search of this shuttlebay 1. Ten yards in, his pace slows to a crawl, every step increasingly harder to take than the one preceding it. Eventually, he comes to a stop and looks around for a moment, feeling a little stupid. “What am I doing?”

Abruptly, he turns around and heads back. As if attached to an invisible rubber band, he picks up speed the closer he gets to his destination, until the door opens and reveals Emily, who hasn’t moved an inch.

Tony halts in the doorway and the two officers stare at each other, not exactly knowing what to say. “That… umm… aunt of yours.”

“I never liked her anyway,” Emily replies as she moves past Tony and enters the corridor he’s in. Tony bursts out with laughter and follows her. “We have about three minutes left to make it to the shuttle,” she says. “We’d better hurry.”

“Wait a minute. I’m not that fast,” Tony says as he attempts to catch up with her. “You might need to carry me again!”

Emily is wise enough to ignore that remark.


	3. Chapter II

**Earth, San Francisco – July 1, 2380 – Stardate 57498.6**

From the moment the sun began its early-morning reign, there hasn’t been a cloud in sight. In a few hours, the sun will ring the curtain down on another well-received performance and disappear behind the horizon. Until then, everyone in and out of the city can revel in the comfort of a warm summer’s day.

Lieutenant Ralph Blue has been working in the garden all day, yet he’s reluctant to quit. His endearingly archaic cottage on the outskirts of San Francisco is surrounded by a large garden, which requires frequent maintenance. That’s no issue for Ralph, who can be found tending his box trees whenever his busy work schedule in Starfleet’s science division allows him the opportunity.

In his late forties, the lieutenant is an attractive man. His well-preserved looks and natural charm, complemented by his laugh lines, give him every ingredient to be a typical ladies’ man. However, after his wife left him when their only son was ten years old, his appetite for romance faded. Self-blame and regret formed a bitter cocktail preventing him from opening up to anyone new. Instead, he focused on being a good parent, until the Borg cut those efforts short. Following his assimilation into the Borg Collective and his subsequent rescue at the hands of his son, who left shortly thereafter, he embraces these instances of solitude to reflect on his life. On a day like this, there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s on the right track.

So here the off-duty lieutenant is trying his best to turn a box tree into a perfect globe  while occasionally throwing a glance at the city of San Francisco, which lies gleaming in the evening sun. He has no regret whatsoever for moving to this house on this hill with its bright green grass and fertile soil. Having lived here for almost two years now, he is yet to grow tired of the scenery, so he glimpses at the city once more, only to discover that a figure has emerged at the far end of the garden.

“Dad?” the figure says.

Ralph responds by cutting his award-winning box tree neatly in half. Oblivious to his act of tree mutilation, he drops his gardening tools and slowly rises to his feet, squinting at the silhouette. Could it be… “Tony?” he says, staggering toward the figure. Once he’s close enough to recognize his son, Ralph breaks into a run, aching muscles or not.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t—” Tony says, unable to finish his sentence because Ralph hugs him so thoroughly he’s lifted off the ground.

To Ralph’s surprise, his son winces in pain, prompting Ralph to let go and step back. Though this shouldn’t be, the young commander appears weak and disheveled. Granted, his wearing civilian clothing instead of a pristine Starfleet uniform might detract from his usual confident aspect, and it has been a year since Ralph has last seen him, but he knows his son well enough to sense his misery. “You’re not a Q anymore.”

Arms hanging by his sides, Tony stares at the grass. “Is it that obvious?”

“Is this why you’ve come back?”

Tony struggles to come up with a proper answer. “I… I just wanted to say hello,” he says, trying to sound indifferent and failing. “And I was hoping we could talk.”

“I must say I did not expect this sudden visit,” Ralph says in a serious tone.

Tony opens his mouth, yet words elude him.

“But you know you’re always welcome here.” The affectionate warmth in Ralph’s voice should alleviate any lingering feelings of guilt. “Stay here as long as you like or as long as Starfleet will let you stay.”

This marks the first time since last year that he sees Tony smile.

“You know your way around the house,” Ralph says as he guides his son to their home. While they’re traversing the stone path leading to the front door, he notices Tony is limping. He decides not to mention it. It can wait. Right now, he is content knowing his son has returned. “Your bedroom is still in the same place. I figured you’d be back one day.”

From the corner of his eye, he spots another figure in the garden: a brown-haired woman roughly the same age as Tony. He gives Tony an inquiring look. “Who is she?”

Tony responds with a brief eruption of incoherent stammering. That’s not working, so after a second of contemplation, he levels his gaze at his dad and says, “Umm… can we keep her?”

* * *

Night has fallen over the Pacific Coast. Tony has grabbed a hideous, yellow lawn chair and placed it smack-dab in the middle of the garden, facing a beautiful panorama of San Francisco and all its colorful city lights. The night sky is free of clouds and would be empty and peaceful were it not for the steady streams of air trams, city hoppers, and shuttles crisscrossing the Bay Area like organized fireflies. They carry on as if nothing has changed and nothing ever will, as if the Station A-12 Debacle never took place. He could almost trick himself into believing that—almost. Sitting there, alone with his thoughts, he cannot escape that gnawing feeling one gets after returning from a long vacation: as if one never left to begin with.

His father, carrying an equally hideous lawn chair, walks up to him and seats himself next to his son. “That Emily sure is a sweet girl,” he says. “I can tell she’s feeling at home already. She has customized the guest room to suit her wishes and made an inventory of everything we have and should have.”

“Yeah, she’s like that,” Tony says with a subdued smile. “We’d better get used to it.”

“With her steadfast and strong-willed personality, she reminds me a bit of Sally.”

Tony’s subtle smile turns into a joyless grin. “Let’s hope Emily possesses the loyalty Mom lacked.”

Ralph clears his throat before asking cautiously, “While you were out there, did you reestablish contact with your mother?”

“No. I haven’t spoken with her since she left us.” Tony rubs his jaw. “To tell you the truth, with the way it all went down, how she abandoned us, I don’t ever want to see her again.”

“Neither do I,” Ralph says, though he doesn’t sound convincing.

With that touchy subject out of the way, they silently enjoy the soft weather and take in the splendid view. Minutes drift by like the maundering petals of the lone cherry blossom tree standing proudly at the edge of the garden.

“I’ve really missed this,” Tony says. “It’s different when you’re human. Cool breeze on my skin, air filling my lungs, a real heart pumping blood through my veins, being restricted to one time and place, watching stars that were once my domain. It is humbling to realize how incredibly weak and small I have become.” He catches himself speaking with sudden contempt. “Sorry…”

“It’s okay, son.” Ralph hesitates before continuing. “Emily told me a few things about what you went through at Station A-12, what you did and sacrificed. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, what storm is raging in your head. I’d like to, but I can’t.”

“That’s all right. I can’t imagine how I feel either,” Tony says with a wry smirk. “My current strategy is to try not to think about it too much. I’ll deal with it when I must. It will take time, good old-fashioned linear time.” He wishes he had a beverage with him. That last sentence would have warranted taking a swig and looking pensively into the distance.

“You’ve changed.”

Tony nods, trying to appear stolid while suppressing a brief, unannounced pang of remorse.

“Standing up against the Q Continuum, choosing a side and facing the harsh consequences. You knew what you were giving up.”

“But was it worth it?” Tony asks, no longer pretending to be indifferent. “Most of my friends are dead; I couldn’t prevent that from happening. Got myself scarred for life in the process. I did what I thought was right, but I’m starting to believe I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

“No, you made a conscious decision to be there for your friends when they needed you most, and to be here and fight with us, potentially helping billions of people. The Continuum wouldn’t let you, but you did it anyway. How can that be the wrong call?”

An ironic sort of smile contorts Tony’s lips. “I guess becoming a Q has changed me in more ways than I realized, hasn’t it?”

Ralph no doubt intends to encourage him, yet it comes out as a feeble afterthought when he says, “Hey, you do with your life whatever you want.”

Tony sighs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Their conversation falls silent again as Tony takes a deep breath of pleasant night air and stares at the distant skyscrapers, tiny pins of light shining from their windows, creating a star field of their own. It takes him a while to muster the courage to say what needs to be said. “I’m sorry, Dad, for leaving you here. I shouldn’t have neglected you the way I did… You didn’t deserve that.”

Ralph knows a sincere apology when he hears one. He puts an arm around Tony and shakes him about playfully. “Well, you’re back now, aren’t you?”

“Phaser scar, Dad. Phaser scar,” Tony groans.

This father-son “quality time” moment suddenly gets interrupted by Emily shouting from inside the house, “Guys, you might want to see this!”

* * *

Ralph, Emily, and Tony sit together on a big sofa in the living room, watching the news on a holographic screen concealing the fireplace when activated. This technology is similar to the viewscreen used aboard the _Achilles_ , albeit simplified and made suitable for domestic use. None of that matters to the three off-duty officers, for the news broadcast has captured their unbridled attention.

A holographic representation of a reporter—an attractive woman in her late twenties—addresses them while the Federation and Altonoid flags hover behind her. “—after claiming they have annexed Loïdian space. Ever since Starfleet made first contact with the Altonoids, three years ago, the Altonoids have treated us with unwavering paranoia and hostility, culminating in several armed conflicts. Regardless, we never gave up protecting the fragile peace between us and the Alto Empire. Last week’s forceful takeover of Station A-12, which cost thousands of lives—”

A stock holophoto of Station A-12 appears on screen. Emily finds it distressing to be confronted with this image, a blatant reminder akin to a sudden punch in the gut. Her wounds are all too fresh. She won’t soon forget the macabre sight of the dead USS _Wolf_ clutching the defeated station. That was the exact moment she fully understood the true extent of the tragedy she had witnessed and that the Altonoids’ victory was irrevocable.

Luckily, the reporter comes into view again. “This relative peace was left hanging by a thread by what many considered an act of war. Our best diplomats have deployed a wide array of tactics to secure peace through negotiations, but the Altonoids were, simply put, ‘unwilling to listen,’ according to a Federation spokesperson.”

She pauses for a few seconds, looking billions of viewers across 8,000 light-years of Federation space in the eyes. “The Alto Empire has declared war on us. The major forces of the Alpha and Beta Quadrant, among them the Klingons and the Romulans, have stated they will remain neutral during this conflict, for this is ‘a dispute between the Federation and the Altonoids.’ Because none of the governments sees any reason or indication that the Altonoids might attack them as well in the near future, the Federation is on its own for now.”

Tony is getting paler by degrees while staring through the viewscreen, and his father shares his silence. Emily can’t believe this is happening. It’s as if she’s in one of those dime-a-dozen disaster holodeck programs or experiencing a bad dream. Sadly enough, there’s no waking up from this. She was in her mid-teens when she watched a disturbingly similar news report announcing the Dominion War. That one proved to be only too real.

The reporter keeps spewing cold fact after fact. “Starfleet is already sending fleets to the Altonoid and former Loïdian borders. Additional military information is not available at present. However, we can be sure that Starfleet will do everything in its power to defend the citizens of the Federation from these aggressors.”

Emily turns to Tony, perhaps hoping to find solace, but he is no longer by her side. Looking around, she catches but a glimpse of Tony walking out the front door. His father hurries after him.

* * *

With unfocused eyes, Tony stares at the stars dotting the night sky in deceptive serenity. It’s hard to take that a war is being prepared somewhere out there—a war he could not prevent.

Footfalls in the grass alert him of his father’s approach. “I knew this would happen,” Tony says to him. “Everything is spiraling out of control the way I foresaw when I was a Q. I know what’s going to happen next. I know where this will lead us. It is what shaped my decision to assist the Federation.”

His dad cannot offer a response to that.

“I don’t… I don’t know the specifics,” Tony continues. “I no longer understand the intricacies of time; details of future events have blurred into a vague mess, yet I can say with absolute certainty that we have great reason for concern.”

Emily walks up to father and son with her arms crossed in a worried self-hug. “But I heard you say you know what’s going to happen.”

“I know we’re going to lose,” Tony says grimly.

“Don’t say that.” Ralph puts a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m neither an expert on temporal mechanics nor can I comprehend how the Q perceive time, but I do know one simple truth: the future hasn’t been written yet. Already your actions must have influenced what you believed to be the future. Could that be why the specifics of this upcoming war have become hazy?”

Tony remains silent as he gently removes himself from his father’s grasp to step forward. He keeps listening, though.

“We’re all afraid of the future,” Ralph says. “Everyone is, especially now.”

“But we know there’s always hope,” Emily cuts in. “We may not be omnipotent, but we can make our little differences each day and hope for the best.”

Tony’s gaze is fixed on the heavens, yet he knows she’s smiling right now, for his sake. “I suppose you’re right.” He turns to face his father and Emily, and indeed, her encouraging smile does not disappoint. “Now I have you two. I couldn’t have predicted that.”

“Exactly!” Ralph says. “Who knows what other great things await us?” He lets the notion sink in for a few seconds. “Or we could all be dead by next week,” he continues in the same optimistic tone of voice.

A beat of shocked silence.

Then everyone bursts out with laughter, and they go back into the house, leaving the radiant field of stars to watch over this tiny blue planet, as it has always done.

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Earth, San Francisco – February 17, 2382 – Stardate 59130.4**

The Federation banner contains only a fraction of the countless stars visible from Earth: three prominent stars, to be exact, accompanied by a few dozen smaller ones. A miniature holographic Federation banner serves as a backdrop for a miniature holographic news anchor emanating from a portable holo-emitter. Its owner, a middle-aged man in a Starfleet uniform, leans against a wall in a calm street overlooking the bustling Golden Gate Bridge while quietly watching the little news anchor hovering above his left wrist.

“—not much has been heard of the Altonoids since,” the holographic woman says, “which has given us a chance to lick our wounds. Shipyards are operating at peak capacity to counter the terrible losses suffered during the past one and a half years. Unfortunately, nobody could ever replace the millions of lives already lost in this fierce war. The last armed conflict with the Altonoids dates back as far as over four months ago, but given the ongoing efforts to rebuild our defensive and offensive—”

Two loud-talking Starfleet officers distract the man for a brief moment as they pass by. When they recognize who they’re bothering, the officers immediately go quiet, allowing the admiral to continue watching the news.

“—the Federation suffer the same fate as the Loïdians? Starfleet Intelligence has proven irrefutably that the Alto Empire has betrayed their former ally and overthrown the Loïdian government, their citizens enslaved, their technology exploited.

“And what about the S’Prenn? In the beginning of the Federation-Altonoid war, the S’Prenn helped us on three separate occasions. Mysteriously enough, we haven’t heard anything from them in over a year, nor have we found any indication of S’Prenn activity. Their continued support would have been more than welcome. What has happened to them? Nobody can give us the answer to this ever-pertinent question. Starfleet assures us, however, that they will not stop protec—”

The slender admiral shuts off the wrist holo-emitter. The dissipating hologram reveals a Starfleet drafting poster on the nearby wall—a poster on which able-bodied young men and women stand side by side, willing to lay it all on the line to defend their homes. Admiral Keith Harriman studies it and lets out a somber sigh before walking out of the alley and into the crowded streets.

“San Francisco has seen better days,” Admiral Harriman thinks out loud, noticing many details that were different, say, two years ago. The people are timid, silently going about their everyday activities, whether they are human, Vulcan, Bolian, or any other species the admiral comes across. Most of them have suffered great losses… Family, loved ones, some even lost their entire home planet. Heavy hearts render the streets quiet and colorless. Few children play in the abundant parks and playgrounds. Any desire to play outside has long since been quenched by their parents’ wartime anxiety. Shuttles, air trams, and other forms of transportation do their work overhead, somehow appearing equally as timid and lifeless.

But hey, at least the sun’s shining, trying to cheer up the world.

Every once in a while, Admiral Harriman encounters armed Starfleet officers. He greets them whenever they greet him, but he shakes his head afterward. This reminds him too much of the Dominion War, when Earth was under constant threat and nearly turned into a police state. The aggressors may have changed, but the looming atmosphere of dread is eerily similar.

“The last armed conflict with the Altonoids occurred in early October, but everyone is still jumpy,” Harriman mumbles to himself. “That last encounter was a disaster for the Federation. The entire population of Matala IV wiped out, another 84 vessels lost on our side…”

People are staring at him, and he realizes his thoughts are a bit too loud to be classified as such. He stops speaking but keeps ruminating. Nobody has forgotten the Matala incident. Better yet, everyone can readily name each Altonoid incident of the past two years, starting with the Station A-12 Debacle and the Battle of Nedron. He can still picture himself on the bridge of the _Achilles_ , his fleet hopelessly outmatched, shouting orders as the relentless enemy destroys one ship after another, each with hundreds of good people on it, all lost to the vacuum of space.

Lieutenant Commander Ralph Blue is standing across the street, amidst a dressed-up crowd that has gathered in front of a beautiful old building with a cement stairway leading to a solid maple double door entrance. The lieutenant commander enthusiastically waves his arms at the admiral.

Harriman pushes his troubled expression away with a broad—if not entirely genuine—smile and waves back.

Ralph is wearing his Starfleet dress uniform, which is notably different from the standard-issue one. For instance, the dress uniform jacket is white instead of black and has a wide blue-gray stripe running down its center, there is prominent gold stitching on both jacket and pants, and it makes its wearers look like they escaped the set of “The Love Boat.” A considerable portion of the crowd is wearing these dress uniforms. Judging by how happy everyone seems, it’s obvious something special is going on.

Feeling a little self-conscious, the admiral hurries across the street.

Ralph greets him with an extended hand. “Admiral Harriman, I presume?”

Harriman replies with a courteous nod and shakes hands with the lieutenant commander. “And you must be Ralph Blue. Tony’s father.”

“I’m glad you could make it, Admiral. Not everyone we invited could be here today.”

“I just had to visit them. When I met them two years ago, while still in command of the _Achilles_ , I somehow felt responsible for them, especially for Tony. I’m glad to hear everything turned out well for him.”

“You bet.” Talking about his son—with an admiral, no less—makes Ralph’s eyes light up. “Since he arrived on Earth he has been serving at Starfleet HQ as a tactical advisor. Everybody’s very pleased with his work. If it weren’t for him, we might’ve lost many more lives in this war.”

A short silence ensues. The word “war” has become a jinx these days.

“It’s odd, though,” Ralph continues in order to break this gloomy silence. “My own son outranks me and has a better service record than I’ll ever have, even though I’ve been with Starfleet for twenty-five years.”

Harriman detects a fair share of fatherly pride in Ralph’s voice. “You should be proud of him,” he says, knowing the lieutenant commander wanted him to say that.  

Ralph’s smile widens. “Thank you, Admiral. I am.”

Harriman leans in a little closer and says in a serious tone, “The first time I spoke with Tony, he was very upset about losing his Q powers. I felt sorry for him.” He tries to formulate a tactful question regarding Tony’s current state.

No need, Ralph can already guess what the admiral is getting at. “He seems to have accepted his newborn humanity. It has been a struggle, and I don’t think he has fully come to terms with himself yet. He’s a fighter, though. Despite everything, he remains focused on the future. Nobody here can deny that.” A subtle smile shows off his laugh lines, and he glimpses up the stairs. When he sees nobody is there yet, he asks, “So what do you do now? You’re no longer in command of the _Achilles_ , you said.”

“Correct. Last year I got bumped up to admiral and they put me in command of Earth Spacedock.”

Ralph gives the admiral a pat on the back. “Earth Spacedock? Now that’s a good career move.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve supervised so many battles—too many to count—and I know deep down that I can be more valuable commanding a ship on the war front.” He shrugs. “Starfleet decided to take me out of the captain’s seat anyway and promoted me to admiral as cold comfort.”

On a special occasion such as this, Ralph is impervious to pessimism. “On the bright side, it is safer in Earth’s orbit than way out there.”

“That’s true. I shouldn’t complain. Skilled in combat as I am made out to be, I’ve never yearned for battle.” A glimmer of mischief flashes across his lean features. “But if we’re under attack by an Altonoid fleet, I don’t intend to sit on my butt and wait for them to come knocking on my door.”  

Ralph chuckles at the admiral’s candid remark. “So who’s in command of the _Achilles_ now?”

“The powers that be replaced me with an established captain.” Harriman smoothens his jacket. “Captain Stephan Rinckes.”

The crowd cheers and throws white rice at the young man and woman who have emerged from the building and are coming down the stairs. Some of the attendees are taking pictures with their holo-cameras, ready to cherish the occasion for years to come.

Like his father and many others guests, Commander Tony “Q” Blue is adorned in his dress uniform. He’s looking better and healthier than ever, yet he still favors his right leg. Although walking has become considerably easier for him than it had been directly after the Station A-12 Debacle, he proceeds down the stairs carefully with the help of his bride.

Ensign Emily Murphy is wearing a gorgeous red wedding dress and tries to maintain a smile through all the rice that is being thrown at her. It’s clear the newlyweds are quite fond of each other, because they’re focusing on the happy moment itself instead of the hazardous fountains of rice.

Of all those present, Ralph is applauding the loudest. Harriman applauds too, though with a tad more modesty. Admittedly, seeing Tony and Emily this joyful warms his heart. Happiness this pure is the rarest of commodities.

When the bridal pair has finished their brief journey down the stairs, they recognize Harriman standing next to Tony’s father. The happy couple work their way through the crowd while high-fiving outstretched hands and receiving hugs varying in intensity, and eventually they reach them.

“That’s been a while,” Tony says as he shakes Harriman’s hand. “An admiral, no less?”

Admiral Harriman tries to say something self-effacing, but a wholehearted embrace from Emily prevents this.

As if it isn’t busy enough for Tony and Emily, their wedding planner summons them to get on the shuttle bus that touched down seconds ago. The white shuttle bus—in the 24th century more shuttle than bus—opens its side and rear doors, and a red carpet rolls out of its right door. While the overzealous wedding planner pushes Tony toward the shuttle bus, Emily manages to stay put and say to the admiral, “At nine o’clock this evening we’ll hold a wedding reception at Deer Park Villa. You’re welcome to drop by if you want.”

“Thank you kindly for the offer,” Harriman says, using his gentlest voice again, “but I have other obligations.”

“That’s okay. It was nice to see you again.” That’s all she can say for now, because the ardent wedding planner has grabbed hold of her and is gently but firmly pulling her in the direction of the shuttle bus, where her husband awaits. Once she has boarded, scores of people follow suit, including a small-framed, middle-aged lady wearing a beret. Tony’s father hops onto the bus as well and wraps his arms around his son and daughter-in-law as soon as he has braved a sea of occupants.

Alone in the thinning crowd, Harriman watches the red carpet rolling back in and the doors closing while the shuttle bus gets ready for departure. He waves as the shuttle bus lifts off, heads for the sky, and becomes one of the many anonymous specks of dust flying overhead. His waving went unnoticed, no doubt.

Admiral Harriman will have to report back to Earth Spacedock soon, yet something compels him to stay a while longer and go for a stroll. When he saunters off, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his mind wanders as it did before. This time, however, his thoughts aren’t so downcast. The streets seem colorful and alive to him now, and the sun is shining brighter than before. At a leisurely pace, he makes it all the way back to Fort Mason and spends ten minutes gazing at the juxtaposition of sea and hills before pressing his combadge and disappearing in a flurry of blue light.

* * *

  **Earth, San Francisco – April 16, 2382 – Stardate 59288.9**

Tony Q takes off his regular uniform jacket and shirt to replace them with his dress uniform jacket, which nicely complements his black pants with its gold embroidering reserved for Starfleet’s most formal attire. “How do I look?”

“Ready for a party.” Ensign Emily Blue—already wearing her security division dress uniform—is seated in a rectangular lounge chair, with her back turned against the set of windows covering the south side of their modern bungalow. Though this house is a few dozen kilometers away from where they used to live with Tony’s father, the view of San Francisco in the distance is simply spectacular, especially now, late at night, with the city lit up like a Christmas tree. Holding an important position at Starfleet Headquarters has it perks when it comes to choosing a place of residence.

“I am more than ready for a bit of fun,” Tony says with a weary smirk **,** followed by a deep sigh. “What a week!”

“Starfleet knows how to keep us busy,” Emily says while standing up to switch on a few extra lights. It’s getting darker than usual outside—the kind of darkness one would normally associate with endless winter nights. “And they don’t believe in shore leave during wartime, that’s for sure.”

Tony doesn’t reply, distracted by a hopeless struggle with his collar. “Oh come on,” he says to his uniform, to no avail.

Emily decides to help Tony get his collar straight before someone gets hurt. She places her hands on his jacket and assesses the situation.

“I mean it’s Friday night and they still won’t give us a rest,” Tony says as he catches a rosy whiff of her perfume.

“Relax,” she says while solving his collar problems in two seconds flat. “It’s not another meeting with Starfleet’s finest about fleet strategies, worst case scenarios, or whatever it is you lot talk about all week. It’s a party!”

“Easy for you to say,” Tony says, checking his collar for any irregularities. Of course, he finds none. “All you have to do is guard some museum in Chicago.”

Emily deflects his sarcasm with a teasing tone. “Hey, that’s not nice. I love my job at the Art Institute and you know it.” She threatens to mess up his collar again.

Tony shrinks back, laughing. “No, no. I’m sorry.”

Emily breaks off her attack and walks away with a spring in her step. “It was nice of you to invite me and your dad to that fancy gala.”

“Yeah, trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Admiral Paris and Admiral Manero duke it out on the dance floor.”

Emily makes a display of rolling her eyes at his attempt at humor but can’t suppress a giddy chuckle. “No, seriously. Your father’s really looking forward to it.”

Tony heads over to the window and gazes at the city. “He’s probably already out there, waiting by the entrance.”

In the sky over San Francisco, multiple shadows take form. Tony has to squint to make them out, but they are there—no question about it. Of course, a metropolitan sky is never empty—tons of shuttlecraft of all kinds and sorts fly around twenty-four hours a day—but these shadows cannot be ordinary shuttlecraft, because those are required to fly with activated navigation lights. These shadows are blacker than night itself; if they weren’t moving, they’d be invisible.

Beautiful and alarming in equal measure, green lights emerge from the shadows to rain down on the city. When these lights hit the skyline below, instigating bright explosions, Tony realizes at last he is watching a terrible disaster unfold before his very eyes! He wants to call out to Emily, but his mind has gone numb and his mouth dry.

While opaque fighters descend from the heavens and fire at the city of San Francisco, Tony doesn’t even wonder how they broke through the planetary defense grid and the fleets of starships guarding Earth, or if they’re also attacking other cities all across the globe. All he focuses on is a plethora of spacecraft attacking his city, unleashing their wrath on defenseless buildings, extinguishing lives left and right.

Fiery detonations knock out the electrical grid of a skyscraper, shrouding it in darkness until another weapon strike zaps through dozens of its floors. A handful of seconds later, the weakened structure collapses in an avalanche of dust and debris. Countless buildings suffer the same fate, one by one. The burning city lights the sky with an irregular, lurid glow, enabling Tony to identify the fighters as _Foora_ -class Altonoid ships—similar in appearance and configuration to Klingon Birds of Prey and just as deadly. Heavily armed, highly maneuverable, and boasting a wingspan of up to 60 feet, these fighters are built for one thing and one thing only: to spell doom for their enemies.

Shuttles and other armament-carrying craft that were already airborne mount attacks on the Altonoid battalions with varying results, mostly in the aggressors’ favor. No matter how hard they try to defend the city, the fighters easily outnumber them. A million questions pop up in Tony’s head; fury, sadness, and despair vie for his attention, but they’re all set aside by one simple fact: the Altonoids are invading.

There is Starfleet Headquarters, near the Golden Gate Bridge, lit by numerous phaser beams and white-hot explosions. Tony is forced to watch helplessly as a squadron of Altonoid fighters barrels down in an attack run and lets fly at the most important building of San Francisco—or Earth, for that matter—and Tony’s workplace. Within seconds, the proud nerve center of Starfleet Command is diminished to mere ashes and rubble, and what’s left is destroyed by the Altonoid squadron directly behind the first one.

Tony finally regains control over his vision, so he can actually choose where to direct his gaze, allowing him to notice that the suburbs and nearby towns are under siege as well. Directly ahead, a Starfleet fighter catches his eye. It’s flying at low altitude with an angry Altonoid fighter hot on its trail. The small _Peregrine_ -class fighter is hardly a match for the _Foora_ -class Altonoid fighter, and it’s suffered heavy damage. Worse yet, the Starfleet fighter’s left wing catches fire after its impulse engine blows up, causing the fighter to spin out of control, heading straight for Tony and Emily’s bungalow!

Hypnotized by the fighter twirling down at him in a frenzy of flames, Tony refuses to believe this is happening. It isn’t going to hit the bungalow; it’s going to zoom over and crash into something else. It can’t possibly—

His hypnosis bursts like a bubble when Emily grabs him by the arms and shoves him away from the windows overseeing the imminent disaster. Tony concludes it’s a good idea to dive away from a spacecraft on a direct collision course, and he and his wife land uncomfortably behind their brand-new couch.

In the final moments before the crash, the fighter makes a last ninety-degree roll to the right. Now it’s coming in vertically with its right wing pointing at the ground. In essence, the bungalow is about to be carved in two by an enormous, burning circular saw.

The fighter’s nose shatters the windows within a nanosecond, sending a mist of pulverized glass flying in all directions. Although these fighters seem relatively small when airborne, they’re not so small when they come bashing through your living room! The impact causes the vertical fighter to tumble end over end, slicing, dicing, and scorching all it encounters, including the roof, the floor, and everything in between that’s unfortunate enough to get hit by the rotating vessel and the debris it sheds.

Luckily, Tony and Emily don’t find themselves in its direct crash path. They do, however, find themselves covered in remnants of their walls, furniture, and windows. Unrelenting racket terrorizes their eardrums as the fighter careens by and unexpectedly jumps up and over the rest of the building, sparing the bungalow from being entirely cut in half. The earsplitting din originating from the tumbling wreckage ends in a bright flash not more than a hundred yards away. Burning debris of all shapes and sizes strike what is left of their home, pierce through the few upright walls, and flutter in through the damaged roof. The lights have gone out; now, the only light source is the burning rubble left by the destroyed fighter.

They can’t hide under the couch forever. Emily strains to lift its splintered frame. Holding up the collection of wood and rags they once knew as their couch, she wrinkles her brow at her husband, who makes no effort to get up. Tony is scratched and bruised, muttering things like, “I put on my best uniform for this?” and grumbling mild profanities. Other than that, he believes he’s all right. Nothing’s broken, as far as he can tell.

Emily throws away what remains of the couch, freeing herself and her husband. Tony carefully sits up to assess the damage while Emily rises to her feet to no doubt do the same. Not an easy task, considering the living room is now as dark as the sky, which has become an unwanted addition to their ceiling. The fact that some pieces of furniture and household items, including broken lamps, are on fire is helpful in an ironic sort of way. Their bungalow has been reduced to one big mess with debris lying everywhere. Everything is charred, shattered, unrecognizable, or simply gone. The roof has come down where the big windows used to be, the ceiling is cut in two, and the kitchen’s on fire.

“So, what’s your opinion?” Tony asks with a wagonload of sarcasm. “How bad is it?”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Emily replies while trying to walk through the rubble. “Lick of paint here and there.”

Tony laughs a sad laugh as he stands up and pats the dust off his uniform. He has to wade across a river of broken possessions to get to Emily. Once he has caught up with her, they both share a long and sad look at their living room. Nothing they can possibly say will be much of help. Well, maybe nothing except, “I’m glad you’re okay,” which Tony says as he puts an arm around his wife. Emily responds with one of those smiles that would’ve set the room on fire if it weren’t already.

They climb through and over the rubble, searching for an exit, not even bothering to check for valuables. Soon enough, they find their way out of the scorched bungalow that was supposed to be their home for many years to come. Instead of the pitter-patter of little feet they hoped to hear one day, they get to listen to hollow clicks of spreading fire.

The street adjacent to their burning home is relatively quiet. This reasonably secluded neighborhood is by no means a pivotal strategic target. However, there is no indication the Altonoids will cease their attack once they’re done with downtown San Francisco. If they’ve made it this far, there will be no stopping them.

Noises of panic and bedlam, though several miles away, frighten Tony to the core. The bright nimbus of phaser beams and explosions turns night into day, giving the sky a beautiful but haunting ignited aspect. With every act of destruction, the war front is brought closer to their current whereabouts. There simply isn’t a single area to be found here that can guarantee safety for more than a few minutes, which is unlike anything Tony has ever experienced— despite being a former Q. Nonetheless, he realizes fear is merely a luxury when it comes to dealing with potential planet-wide annihilation.

Tony turns to his wife. “This is pretty bad,” he says in a tone more reassuring than its implication. He rests his hands on Emily’s shoulders to grab her attention as lovingly as possible when their dreams of a happy future lie burning a stone’s throw away. “I want you to take the first warp-capable spacecraft you can get your hands on, and then get the hell off this planet and out of this solar system without looking back. I’m going—”

“—to the city to find your father, I know. Let me come along.”

“I don’t…” Tony finds himself unable to complete the sentence. He bites his lip and tries again. “I don’t want to lose you as well.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Emily says, sounding impatient yet gentle, “but I’m a trained security officer. I can help you.”

“My first priority is to make sure my loved ones are safe, starting with you.” If only he knew how. Just as he’s about to admit to himself that there is no plan, he spots the silhouette of a parked shuttlecraft in the distance. With its back door open, it casts light on the pavement, acting as a homing beacon for the handful of shadowy figures fleeing into the shuttle, helped by another stationary shadow. “Let’s go.” Tony says as he grabs Emily by the hand and runs toward them. Emily doesn’t protest.

* * *

When the Altonoids started their devastating attack on Earth, Lieutenant Junior Grade Danielle Forrester had a decision to make: power up weapons and fight back or find a landing spot and gather as many survivors as possible. Without hesitation, she landed her shuttle, opened its hatch, and started guiding people in. After all, she’s a medic, not a fighter pilot.

Two more survivors run up to her: a man and a woman, both wearing singed dress uniforms. They must be in their early twenties, like Danielle, but judging by the rank insignia, the young man holds the rank of commander. Could it be? Yes, it’s none other than Commander Tony Q—quite a small guy for such a big reputation.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” he greets her. “Is there room for one more passenger?” His flustered attitude and tendency to cast glances at the burning city behind him indicate he is not coming along for the ride.

“Yes, there is,” Danielle says, and she addresses the woman by his side in a pleasing tone, showcasing her medical training. “Hop on board.”

“Are you sure you—” the woman says to Tony. She doesn’t finish the question, because she must already know the answer. “Good luck,” she says instead.

“I will see you soon, Emily.”

Emily works up a faltering smile. “Go and get your dad.”

After kissing goodbye, Tony watches Emily enter the shuttle and keeps staring ahead for a few long seconds, prompting Danielle to say, “There’s still room for you in the shuttle.”

“I need to get to the city,” Tony replies immediately. “Perhaps I could use the transporter system on the shuttle to g—”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Since the attack started, usage of communication and transporter systems has become impossible. My guess is the Altonoids have placed a dampening field in our atmosphere. Before all communication was cut off, I heard that every major city on this planet is under attack.”

Tony presses a palm against his forehead as the news sinks in. Lost in thought, he takes no heed of the distressed people passing him by as they enter the shuttle, hoping to find refuge. His eyebrows contort into a frown as he asks her, “How could the Altonoids invade us like this?”

With no way to answer the rhetorical question, Danielle lets him rant.

“It’s like all our security precautions, the shield grid around Earth, and the fleet guarding this solar system are… nonexistent somehow! How come we’re suddenly rendered completely defenseless?” The occasional fighter crash going on in the background provides his sudden monologue with extra poignancy. “We had so many defensive and offensive combat strategies, so many preventive measures, so many well-thought-out worst case scenarios. And now, all that remains is collecting as many survivors as possible and getting off this rock, this death trap!” He takes a deep breath. “All right, so the transporters are down,” he says to himself before talking to Danielle again. “Start prepping the shuttle for launch. I will be coming along. You can drop me off at the edge of the city.”

“No way, Commander,” Danielle replies with her chin held high. “This is not a combat vessel. Once the shuttle is full, I will get the survivors out of harm’s way at maximum warp.”

Tony’s perplexed at her reaction. “That was not a suggestion, Lieutenant!”

Danielle stays perfectly poised and lays down the facts. “Going to the city is suicide. It is swarming with fighters. You will not only endanger your own life, but also that of mine, your girl, and the other survivors.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I’m sorry, but I am _not_ willing to take that risk.”

Tony resorts to sarcasm to get the message across. “Look at my collar,” he says. “Three rank pips. Look at your collar. Two rank pips. Hey! Doesn’t that mean something?”

Danielle remains equally as polite as unyielding. “It means disobeying your rash order might get me court-martialed. Problem is, you probably won’t survive your little trip to the city, so you won’t be able to testify against me, so there won’t be a court martial.”

“Damn it! Look around you!” Tony shouts as he waves his arms all over the place to point out the surrounding mayhem. “What do you think this is? A bloody cadet review? You can’t disobey a direct order. We’re at war. We’re in the midst of an all-out invasion, for crying out loud!”

“I know full well we’re in a terrible war,” Danielle shoots back, surprising Tony once again and successfully shutting him up in the process. “I’m sorry if I don’t live up to your standards of what the perfect Starfleet officer should represent, but I really couldn’t care less right now. I’m trying to rescue as many as I can, because that is what I do. If you want to go on your quest to save the day, then by all means, go! But do not risk the few souls who have become _my_ responsibility as soon as they stepped aboard my shuttle. I will stop at nothing to make them survive this cursed day. And in case you want me to face that court martial, I am Lieutenant Danielle Forrester. Maybe you should write that down!”

Tony has to straighten his back to regain his posture after being subjected to this unexpected barrage of words. “I will remember you,” he says in a subdued voice, “as the officer who saved my wife.”

Now it’s Danielle’s turn to be surprised. Before she can retort, Tony runs away, back to his house.

* * *

Tony almost wishes he hadn’t bothered opening the garage door. Even though the out-of-control fighter missed it, the destructive forces of the nearby crash didn’t spare the garage in the slightest. His carefully arranged shelves are a shambles, and its contents—mostly tools and vintage car memorabilia—lie scattered about on a floor that used to be pristine. The lights are out, the walls are smudged black, and floor and ceiling panels have been shaken loose. He has to push a toppled storage rack away in order to see it in all its glory, but there it is: his classic Mercedes-Benz hover car.

Tony is very proud of this rare vehicle brought forth by a distant era, but his wife thinks it’s “an antiquated piece of cavemen engineering filling up the garage.” She just refuses to understand what it is like to hover around in this prime example of cultural heritage. Even bringing her along on several day trips failed to change her mind. Her loss.

This silver 2134 Mercedes hover car was the pinnacle of automotive engineering in its heyday, with its speedboat-like design, its beautifully sculpted two-seater cockpit dome, and the rounded contours at the bottom that mask the once revolutionary repulsorlifts. It’s a work of art, really. Granted, its technical condition isn’t perfect yet, but Tony always takes good care of its interior and exterior, making the nearly 250-year-old Mercedes seem factory-fresh.

Tony polishes off a little stain made by a stray ceiling tile and makes an unlocking gesture at the transparent cockpit dome. The dome separates and both segments slide down into the sides of the hover car. Or at least, that’s what’s supposed to happen. The right half bounces back up with a feeble sound, to Tony’s dismay. “Cursed Altonoids…” he mutters as he hops into the car. The left half closes automatically, sealing him in 22nd-century luxury.

Red leather and chrome decorate the cockpit of the Mercedes. With a barely contained sigh of sheer pride, Tony grabs the steering wheel, rests his hand on the throttle stick, and revels in the mesmerizing simplicity of their chrome design. At least the interior wasn’t harmed in the attack. A series of displays covers the dashboard from left to right, casting soft, blue light and showing polite welcome messages to the driver and the notably absent passenger.

Tony switches on the headlamp, which in turn showers the garage with light. Not a particularly pleasant sight, as there isn’t much left of the garage to begin with. A big, illuminated Mercedes star rises up from the hood, fizzles out, and lowers again. After some annoyed growls, Tony decides to try to ignore the damage to his hover car and focus on getting it started instead.

Starting the engines of this type of Mercedes used to be easy—back in 2134. All you had to do was say “check area” to let the car conduct a few tests to make sure it’s safe to activate its engines, say “initiate repulsorlifts” so the car would lift up about a foot or so, and conclude with “start engines” to start hovering wherever you want to go. It’s the kind of ritual that makes any hover car enthusiast feel warm and fuzzy inside, and Tony is no exception.

“Check area,” he says. Nothing happens. “Check area!” Still nothing. “Check the bloody… Oh, that’s right.” Impatiently tapping a finger on the steering wheel, he starts over.

“Cheek gibble.” The dashboard displays indicate the area is secure.

“Tamper riddlesteak.” The repulsorlifts become active, shining bright blue light at the ground and lifting the car up.

“Hollow ostrich.” Nothing. “Um…” He rubs his chin in an attempt to jog his memory, before saying with cheerful sarcasm, “Hello, ostrich.” The engines ignite with a furious roar, scattering sparks throughout the dusky garage. Vowing to himself to get the voice interface module replaced at his earliest convenience, he pushes the throttle stick to the max. The car lunges forward and fights its way through the remains of the garage, shoving all rubble aside on its way to freedom. He steers the hover car into the night, forever leaving his war-torn house behind.

* * *

It’s as if Tony is driving through a very detailed nightmare. Practically every building is either destroyed or on fire. Man or woman, old or young, indigenous or alien—they roam the streets, drifting from place to place like phantoms in the night. He hears desperate screams coming from all directions, audible in spite of the dome’s considerable insulation. Fire pours down from the skies, and blazing debris keeps striking the ground at random.

Gathering clouds hide battles being fought several kilometers high. Masses of evaporated water cannot obscure the sounds of spacecraft whooshing by, weapons firing, and the accompanying devastation, nor can they shield Earth and everything on it from impacting phaser beams carving deep marks into its surface.

Though his hover car is painfully slow by today’s standards—a top speed of a mere 600 kph is laughable at best—Tony is progressing steadily toward San Francisco. Judging by the state of these burning suburbs, the city isn’t going to be a safe place to visit, to put it mildly. Tony is fully aware of the risks involved, but it’s going to take more than that to deter him from protecting his dad.

The surroundings are getting misty. Green phaser beams hitting the soil like unnaturally straight thunderbolts bathe the region in an unsettling hue. The hover car’s wide headlight shines at an encroaching wall of fog. Even though it’s the last thing he wants to do, Tony is forced to ease back on the throttle. He does not intend to veer from his course, however, navigating from memory, taking every shortcut he recalls. Skillfully, he pilots his Mercedes through abandoned pedestrian zones and parks, avoiding residential areas for fear of becoming trapped.

His mind wanders to how fast everything went from the mundane to the extraordinary, from the enjoyable to the horror he’s in now. Is his wife safe or has her shuttle been shot down like the many smoldering wreckages he encounters on the road? What will San Francisco be like when—and if—he arrives? Will there be anyone left to save?

An ear-piercing explosion to his left rocks the hover car, jolting him from his reverie. He passes whatever act of wanton destruction he has witnessed and continues his perilous journey. Pondering the situation won’t do much good anyway; his fraying concentration is better spent on getting to the city in one piece.

* * *

“Alert. Alert,” a baritone computer voice says while the dashboard displays a series of warnings. Before Tony can react, his Mercedes initiates an emergency stop. With nauseating deceleration, the hover car comes to a complete halt—and just in time too. If the emergency braking system hadn’t deployed, Tony would’ve fallen at least 40 feet before hitting two semitransparent railway tubes emanating from the tunnel below. Visibility is poor, but he knows where those two railway tubes lead: the Golden Gate Bridge.

Tony loosens his grip on the steering wheel and leans back in his leather seat. With a couple of quick commands, he deactivates the safety protocols, ending the numerous alerts. He will have to go around somehow, unless he wants to crash-land on top of those railway tubes. Skipping California’s most famous bridge altogether is an option worth considering. His hover car should be able to travel across water. However, given its current suboptimal technical condition, he’d rather not chance it.

The air is clearing up, making the nearest tower of the Golden Gate Bridge protrude through the fog in all its steel majesty, its distinctive red color turned to dried blood in the mist. The bridge is actually closer than Tony thought at first—it’s less than a mile away.

Even though much more technologically advanced bridges have been constructed since this landmark was built—about 450 years ago—the Golden Gate Bridge remains impressive to this day. The many evenly spaced lampposts dimmed by the haze give the bridge an eerie appearance. Tony can’t even see the ocean with all that low fog floating around the feet of the bridge, though it can still be heard faintly over the gentle hum of the Mercedes’ idling engines. The Golden Gate Bridge being completely deserted worries Tony a great deal. The bridge itself looks fine, its suspension cables steady. Then why is no one crossing the bridge, leaving the city? Does that mean there are few or no survivors left?

He peers through the cockpit dome. A blanket of dark clouds looms over the area, which the slowly dissipating mist reveals in more detail with each passing moment. Reflections of warfare draw bright patterns of light in the sky. One of those patterns stands out against the rest. These lights are flickering on and off, and they’re slowly moving toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Oh, not again,” Tony says when he realizes what those descending lights represent. He slams the throttle stick forward and the hover car responds like a bullet fired. It leaps over the ledge, makes a seemingly endless fall, and lands on the railway tubes below in an uncomfortable fashion, shaking Tony about without injuring him. As expected, the rough landing damages the hover car—especially its underside—but the rattled Mercedes is still accelerating toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

The descending lights close in on the top of the bridge; they’re already giving the surrounding fog an orange glow. Tony tries once more to push the throttle stick past its breaking point. He can use all the speed he can squeeze out of this old machine. His sweaty left palm is locked in a fight with the steering wheel to prevent the hover car from sliding off the bulbous railway tubes. The hover car’s underside keeps scraping the tubes as the repulsorlifts desperately search for something to push off against. Though Tony keeps struggling to keep the car under control, he is far more concerned with the sky—and for good reason.

Just as Tony reaches the Golden Gate Bridge, a battle-worn _Excelsior_ -class starship breaks through the fog as if sent by the heavens to wreak havoc upon the lands. He instantly recognizes it as the USS _Fredrickson_ , part of Earth’s defense force. The ship tries to maintain altitude, but all it manages to do is stay level as it falls like a brick dropped in a pool, zeroing in on the closest bridge tower. Big chunks of hull are missing, exposing rooms and blackened corridors, and multiple sections of the once graceful ship are on fire. She is dying, plummeting to her final resting place.

Feeling like an ant about to be crushed by a shoe, Tony doesn’t lose sight of the _Fredrickson_ for a split second. This particular starship is approximately 500 meters in length and over 180 meters in width, considerably wider than the Golden Gate Bridge. Even though the bridge has been rigorously strengthened after its near destruction during the Breen attack in ’75, it’s tinfoil compared to a starship with a total mass of over two million metric tons. Tony awaits the inevitable impact while clutching the throttle so hard it hurts.

Suddenly, the hover car jumps twenty feet into the air and gets tossed back onto the railway tubes with such immense force that the bottom of the car leaves an impressive set of sparks behind. This can mean only one thing: the _Fredrickson_ has collided with the bridge tower, right above his head! He is speeding away from the crashing starship, which is easier said than done when dealing with a Starfleet vessel half a kilometer long. When Tony looks up, he is treated with the breathtaking spectacle of a crumbling starship toppling the tower, deforming it as if it were made of clay. And that sound! It’s as if two incredibly powerful, metallic monsters are caught in an epic fight to the death. It’s the most frightening and humbling sound he has ever heard, bar none. But the ear-deafening screams of tritanium against steel are the least of his worries.

The railway tubes start to bend upward as the unyielding _Fredrickson_ and the collapsing bridge tower entangle the suspension cables and pull them along. The entire bridge quakes, convulsing like a massive beast in its death throes, while the hover car smashes through burning debris that’s raining down from the inferno above him. One by one, suspension cables snap and lash out at Tony, who is busy enough keeping the car on the tubes and evading falling lampposts.

With the railway tubes curling skyward, the Mercedes gradually loses speed. The railway’s increasingly steep grade also sends all debris rolling in Tony’s direction, making it an almost impossible feat to stay on the tubes. Swerving left and right, he does his best to evade scores of unidentifiable ship and bridge components—some small and nothing more than an inconvenience, others big enough to flatten him in an instant.

Tony’s hover car makes another leap into the air as the starship behind him strikes the bridge deck. This is a good thing, as it turns out, because Tony was just wondering how to circumvent a big lump of burning hull plating blocking his path. Now he just sails over it. To his dismay, however, he finds out in midair that the entire bridge deck continues moving away from him, toward the water. The _Fredrickson_ ’s abundant weight must be pushing the entire bridge down, upgrading the hover car’s jump to a long drop as it nosedives toward the railway tubes. The bridge deck hits the giant wall of water and sends huge waves spraying in all directions, which slows the falling bridge down considerably, ensuring Tony’s free fall will end soon. The part of the bridge where Tony is headed for is still bent up and hasn’t sunk… yet.

All he can do is brace himself, teeth clenched, until the Mercedes crashes into the bent railway tubes. When it does, everything goes dark as the headlight is smashed and the interior displays sign off with their last error messages. Though the magnetic seatbelts absorb most of the impact, all air is shoved out of Tony’s lungs and he nearly loses consciousness. The car flips on its roof, giving him a clear view—albeit upside down—of the unidentifiable wreckage of the _Fredrickson_ resting on the crushed bridge tower and a portion of the Marin Headlands.

Collapsed beneath the defeated starship, the bridge deck is still sinking. To make matters worse, the Mercedes starts sliding down the railway tubes, and there’s nothing Tony can do about it. Flames the size of houses shoot from the _Fredrickson_ , lighting the entire area, while the merciless ocean swallows the ship’s engineering section and crooked warp engines along with mutilated remnants of the northern half of the Golden Gate Bridge—a mighty scene to behold.

There are few things worse than sliding down a sinking bridge upside down in an old hover car. For instance, doing so in an old hover car with a transparent roof! Bending metal, exploding debris, and thunderous waves create a deafening orchestra of destruction, yet the damaged roof scratching those railway tubes is the worst sound by far. A growing web of fractures spreads in the dome’s surface, weakening its structure with every offshoot. Although its safety glass won’t hurt Tony if shattered, it is his only protection from the outside world.

Tony is nothing but a hapless passenger as the car slides down, hitting the occasional lamppost or chunk of molten metal while the roof sustains more and more damage, losing its ability to shield him. He has lost all sense of direction. His entire body aches. Panic is taking over. The ocean roars ahead, ready to devour him.

As soon as the upside-down hover car hits the black waves, water rushes in via the broken dome. Reflexively, Tony extends his arms in a fruitless attempt to stop gallons of water from flowing in. It is amazing and frightening at once how rapidly the cockpit fills up, how quickly a comfortable vehicle can become a deadly trap. The shock of being submerged in ice-cold water prevents him from collecting one last breath, and he starts thrashing about, frantically searching for a way out.

He briefly manages to lift his head out of the water before slipping and going back under. Desperate for oxygen, he moves into the same direction and lifts his head clear again. Could he have broken free somehow? He inhales as deeply as his tightened chest allows, opens his eyes, and claws at the red leather above him. The driver’s seat… He is trapped, water rising above his chin, air seeping away through the hover car’s battered underbody. Tony takes one final breath before the sea claims the last pocket of air.

Darkness envelops the cockpit. The Golden Gate Bridge has disappeared. The _Fredrickson_ has disappeared. The whole world has disappeared. There is nothing left to see, no air left to breathe, no warmth left in this freezing water.

Tony has never felt this alone in his entire life while his cold cage drags him to the bottom of the sea.


	4. Chapter III

_How long can I hold my breath?_

_Is there any point?_

Tony Q forces himself to open his eyes. As a result, ice-cold seawater pricks them like small needles. There is not much to see anyway; everything is pitch black. His antique Mercedes hover car is upside down and sinking, dragging him to a watery grave.

_How long have I been under?_

Weightless and numb, his body craves oxygen, but there is none to be found. He might as well take a giant breath of water. Not doing so is merely postponing the inevitable. He experiences the distressing sensation of being compelled to thrash one’s limbs about in a desperate bid for air. It takes a gargantuan effort, but he controls that reflex and remains silent and tranquil, staring into the yellow light that spreads through tons of water and floods the car’s interior with brightness. It’s a beautiful sight, though he doesn’t fully understand what it—

A massive shockwave smashes the hover car backward and sends it reeling. Centrifugal forces toss Tony against the broken cockpit dome, giving him no choice but to go along for the ride.

When the Mercedes finally stops tumbling, Tony sinks back into what must be the driver’s seat. He has lost all sense of direction—a spin in the world’s most unpleasant washing machine will do that to you. It isn’t completely dark anymore, but there’s no way of telling what’s going on beyond the fissured dome, especially because Tony is finding it harder and harder to retain coherent thought. He managed to hold his breath when the shockwave hit, but he has been under water for at least a minute now. The pressure on his lungs is rising to intolerable levels, as if begging him to make room for fresh air. There isn’t any. It’s all in vain; he’s going to drown. He shuts his eyes as his mind grows dimmer by degrees, as if someone is switching off the lights one by one in a long hallway.

_It will all be over soon—the constant pain, the second-guessing, being trapped in this feeble human form on an insignificant planet ravaged by war. It will all be gone if I’d only give in._

Tony feels lighter somehow. Could that be one of the final stages of suffocation? He opens his eyes for a final glimpse at the world through the blur of stinging water. To his astonishment, he sees burning rubble and gray mist outside. His hover car has resurfaced! Yet, no matter how close he is to salvation, he is still trapped inside the water-filled cockpit.

Time has run out. He exhales explosively, sending a swarm of bubbles to the top of the dome, and grabs his mouth and nose with all his might to prevent himself from inhaling water. His lungs fight for breath with such increasing force that he ends up convulsing violently. After an intense, hopeless struggle, he releases his mouth and nose, reaches up, inhales deeply… and fills his lungs with fresh air.

While brawling with the Grim Reaper, he must have fought his head and upper body out of the broken cockpit, and now he’s sticking out of the hover car with his arms held high, relishing the fact that he didn’t drown, and looking pretty silly in the process.

Tony rests his arms on the cracked dome to keep from sliding back into the cockpit that nearly killed him, and he takes deep breath after breath, savoring every oxygen molecule. Walls of fog stretch out in each direction, making it impossible for him to discern anything other than distant specks of light, floating debris, and the poor excuse for a boat he’s in.

“I’m alive!” he shouts suddenly and much to his own surprise. Every cubic inch of his body aches and blood merges with seawater on the transparent cockpit dome, but he couldn’t care less. The good fortune of having survived this ordeal quells his worries. Sure, he’s half-stuck in an oversized fishbowl, sailing straight for Japan for all he knows, but he’s alive!

The hover car glides up and down the waves, and Tony actually enjoys the first twenty-five times it does this (near-asphyxiation does strange things to the mind), but inevitably, he grows tired of it as exhaustion sets in. Listening to the roily sea and the faraway thunder of warfare, only now does he notice a barely audible hum. When he tracks the sound and follows his blood trickling to the undercarriage of his totaled vehicle, he spots a faint blue light illuminating the water.

“Thank you, Mercedes,” he says upon realizing what the blue light represents. A section of the repulsorlifts has reinitiated in emergency mode. That’s what made his Mercedes resurface after being turned the right way up by that shockwave, that strange yellow light… The _Fredrickson_! Its wreckage, resting on seabed and shoreline, must have exploded. It saved his life.

A humorless grin appears on Tony’s face as the hover car keeps floating through the mist. “Thank you, _Fredrickson_.”

* * *

Commander Tony “Q” Blue understands why the USS _Kennedy_ is one of Starfleet’s finest starships. Its crew keeps this _Sovereign_ -class vessel in pristine condition. The carpet he is walking on appears untouched by mere mortals, the corridor is so brightly lit that he suspects somebody has nudged up the lighting a few levels, and the LCARS displays on the bulkheads have been furbished to such an extent that they act as slightly distorted mirrors.

Subordinates who happen to pass by salute him by stating his rank, further cementing his status as local hotshot. The young commander replies with a charming smirk and continues his journey to the end of this corridor. The instant he enters the turbolift he finds there, he arrives at his destination: the _Kennedy_ ’s bridge, brand new and shinier than ever.

For reasons he can’t quite fathom, he hesitates to enter and observes the bridge and its crew from the turbolift instead. Tony’s old friends from the _Kennedy_ are here, and they drop what they’re doing to meet his gaze with broad smiles. Captain Mathieu Duvivier rises to his feet, and one by one, everyone who wasn’t standing already follows suit: First Officer Jansen, Doctor Van Oers, Lieutenants Malin and Muntenaar, Chief Engineer Soeteman, and even the Vulcan science officer Sivar. Lieutenant Appels and Ensign Parkin greet Tony from their tactical stations.

He had almost forgotten how much he cared about these people. Seeing their kind faces in this familiar setting feels like coming home from an arduous journey.

Captain Duvivier gives him a respectful nod. “Welcome back, Tony Q.”

Before Tony can reply, the captain starts a round of applause. Everyone joins in, and Tony finally steps onto the bridge to be surrounded by his friends.

“She sure was a fine ship, wasn’t she?” Captain Duvivier says, brimming with pride.

“Not as good as her crew,” Tony says, intensifying his friends’ smiles. They are nothing but nice to him, and yet an eerie sensation crawls from the recesses of his mind to no longer be ignored. Something is very wrong.

Despite his desire to cling to the illusion, the events of June 26, 2380, are ingrained in his memory. That day, the USS _Kennedy_ was lost with all hands during the Station A-12 Debacle. Captain Duvivier and Commander Jansen were held captive on board the station and never made it out. Of the dozens of armed security squads that were sent to free the hostages, only two people survived: Tony and Emily. The rest of Tony’s team, led by Lieutenant Appels and Dr. Van Oers, perished in the corridors of Station A-12.

These exemplary men and women, his friends, this ship—they’re all gone; they have been for almost two years. But here he is, on the bridge of the ill-fated _Kennedy_ , encircled by the dead. A paralyzing coldness creeps up from Tony’s soles to his spine, and the once overly bright illumination dims gradually. Within seconds, the cruel temperature shift brings him to his knees.

“It’s so cold. So cold,” Tony says. His friends don’t respond to him anymore. They keep smiling those loving smiles while everything dissolves. Invisible claws seize his hips, inciting crippling surges of pain. He reaches out for the shadowy figures around him, begs for their help, but they fade into darkness to be replaced by equally dark clouds spewing green thunderbolts.

The hover car beneath Tony shocks and shudders as if a giant hand is lifting it out of the sea. He awakens completely from his upsetting dream and finds himself reintroduced to harsh reality. Peering through the night sky, he notices the Mercedes has stopped moving as well as floating. It has hit the shore.

Protruding fragments of the broken cockpit dome have pierced Tony’s hips, keeping his lower body trapped and his legs submerged in ice-cold water, which is slowly seeping away. If he were to make a wild guess, he would say his unintended sailing trip has taken at least half an hour—long enough for his legs to go numb while the rest of his body aches up a storm.

Tony tries to wrestle himself out of the shattered cockpit dome, causing its jagged edges to cut deeper into his skin. With the last vestiges of his strength, he frees himself from the Mercedes and slides down its frigid glass and metal face-first to make a soft landing in the sand. Where is he anyway? This beach has no discerning landmarks. If he is to find his father, he must determine where his hover car has taken him. Lacking the energy and will to get going, he lies there for a prolonged moment of inaction, listening to the gentle roll of the tide inviting him to drift off to sleep.

A surge of adrenaline snaps him back into the real world. Ahead, the ruins of San Francisco burn, under attack by Altonoid fighters circling the hills like vultures. That solves the mystery then; his little odyssey, adrift in his Mercedes, has brought him closer to his destination.

The last time he saw the city—right before he jumped into his hover car and took off without a plan—it was already in a demolished state, but that was nothing compared to this. Most buildings have collapsed, fire and smoke arises for as far as the eye can see, and downed fighters and assorted space vehicles litter the area. A wrecked _Galaxy_ -class starship has crushed entire neighborhoods. It rests aflame on the remains of houses and toppled skyscrapers, incinerating everything in its vicinity.

Packs of fighters search the streets and let loose barrages of phaser strikes. The sheer volume of explosions seems to be dwindling, however, probably because most of the invaders’ work is done. The only signs of ground activity are numerous beams of light piercing the all-encompassing haze in frantic disarray. Whether those beams originate from flashlights of survivors or those of Altonoid ground troops is anyone’s guess.

He is still lying prone in the sand. “All right, Tony. This is it. This is what you’ll have to do. Your father might be alive, and if he is… he needs your help.” When he raises his head, he sees nothing but utter despair enveloping the destroyed city as the Altonoids finish this attack with brutal efficiency. “It’s hopeless… There’s no point.” Another wave of fatigue hits him and he realizes he still cannot feel his legs. “I’m badly injured. My father is dead. Earth is lost… I should give up.”

He tightens his fists. “Yeah… I really should give up.” He begins crawling his way up the beach, away from his stranded hover car and into the doomed city.

* * *

Commander Tony Q’s stamina is admirable, but his progress is slow nonetheless. Since he’s unable to get any response from his legs, he has no choice but to stick to his strenuous army-crawl. Soon enough, he identifies the location he’s in as the Presidio of San Francisco, which isn’t as overbuilt as the city center. There used to be several important military facilities here. All that is left are piles of stone, dust, and trash, some ablaze—a great contrast with the impressive flora decorating the premises. Most of the vegetation has evaded destruction, which indicates the Altonoids are solely focusing their attacks on killing as many people as possible. It doesn’t take long before Tony comes across the first war victims. He tries to ignore them as he inches past, but these dead bodies lying quietly in the darkness stay in the corners of his vision wherever he fixes his gaze.

As a welcome distraction, a shiny object draws his attention. It’s close to the stone path Tony is crawling on, so he takes the slightest detour to sate his curiosity and digs out what appears to be a plaque. It reads:

STARFLEET MEDICAL ACADEMY

annex to STARFLEET ACADEMY

Nearby lies Starfleet Medical Academy’s charred skeleton frame. He recognizes it solely because of the plaque he has found; there are no other distinguishing features left.

He has recovered a modicum of feeling in his legs, making it easier for him to move, but he can’t drag himself to downtown San Francisco like this. “Here goes nothing,” he says before shifting more weight onto his legs. Gushing pain flares up throughout his body and he can barely hold back an agonized scream, but his legs are equal to the task. Carefully, he stands up. A severe wave of nausea and dizziness rewards him for his efforts, and he falls back to the stone path—and just in time too.

Hurried footsteps are approaching, denying the young commander the chance to get up and flee. Instead, he closes his eyes and remains perfectly still. That, combined with his torn and bloodstained dress uniform, should make him a convincing corpse.

“Hey Hune, would you look at that,” he hears someone say.

Multiple flashlights bathe Tony in sallow light.

“All dressed up for his own funeral,” another voice, presumably Hune, says to the amusement of his companions.

Tony’s mind races as his survival instinct takes the reins. _Altonoids, no doubt whatsoever. Judging by the laughter there’s at least four of them. Or there’s at least four them who liked Hune’s joke…_

“We’re not looking for the dead. We’re looking for survivors,” an Altonoid with an authoritative voice says.

_That’s right. Carry on._

“I’m not sure this one is dead,” says a voice so nearby that Tony almost gives himself away.

_I am dead. Very much dead, thank you. Will you move on, please!_

“Too bad our scanners are inoperable,” the nearby Altonoid continues.

“Yeah, well,” Hune says, “our dampening field’s effect on sensors, transporters, and communication devices is a disadvantage for us too, but I like to think of it as adding to the fun. The best way for us to confirm he’s really dead is by shooting him!”

A couple of Altonoids laugh and one of them charges his rifle. _No, no, no! This isn’t working! What was I thinking? I’ve got to do something fast!_

Tony readies himself to jump up and run off in a last-ditch escape attempt, but the authoritative Altonoid interrupts his trigger-happy subordinate. “No. Don’t waste your ammo on the dead.”

Tony expresses his relief with but a few sweat beads dripping from his forehead onto the ground without anyone noticing. _Did I just meet the first Altonoid I’d like to hug?_

“He’s an obstacle,” the trigger-happy Altonoid retorts. “Other teams will be slo—” An agitated scoff from the commanding Altonoid silences him.

“Throw him with the others. We’ll burn them later.”

This doesn’t calm Tony’s nerves. _Throw me with the others? Oh no…_

Tony tries to stay convincingly dead while two burly Altonoids lift and carry him like a heavy sack of potatoes. He can only hope neither of them detects a heartbeat or muscle contraction and discovers he’s not quite as dead as they think he is. So, despite how rough his carriers are handling him, he surrenders to his fate and keeps himself limp and silent, wondering where they will take him.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

They hurl him onto the pavement. The impact causes Tony great pain, but he doesn’t wince or moan while lying there on his side, pretending to be nothing more than a lifeless bag of meat and bones. Without further decorum, the Altonoids retreat.

When their footsteps have dissolved in the clamor of far-off destruction, Tony allows himself to take deeper and deeper breaths, followed by a long-overdue sigh of relief. “It worked,” he whispers, and he opens his eyes. “It actually—” He looks straight into the dead stare of a motionless cadet lying half a meter away. Every hint of triumph disappears as he stares into the glazed eyes of the young woman—one of today’s many casualties—whose  terrified expression became permanent upon dying. Tony cannot avert his gaze, even though this horrific sight wounds him to the core. With a tender gesture, he reaches out and closes her eyelids. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

Tony’s blood boils with anger. Such an unnecessary loss of life. What the hell could justify killing innocent people? What did this poor girl ever do to anyone? These Altonoids may be humanoid, but their brutality rivals that of beasts. When Tony props himself up on his elbows, he sees countless other dead bodies—mainly cadets—piled up near the Academy’s ruins. These people were training to become doctors, healers. And now they’ve died a violent death.

Fear gets the better of him. If the Altonoids hadn’t fallen for his desperate trick, he would’ve shared these medics’ tragic fate. Slowly, he gets up, his tired legs aching but complying, horror and fury raging through his skull. Trapped inside this weak shell and uncertain of what’s to come, he would like to let out a plaintive groan, but that might attract the enemy. At least he’s standing, and he hasn’t been defeated yet. He has to go on—for Emily, for his father.

Tony rolls up his muddy uniform jacket and shirt to reveal his abdomen. It looks bad; his sides are bloody and bruised, and the old phaser scar above his right hip has opened up again. Suddenly, a twig snaps nearby. He tugs at his shirt to cover his injuries and moves off. Though limping like a wounded animal, he leaves the scene quickly.

* * *

Although Tony has been living in San Francisco for a couple of years, he is having great difficulty orienting himself. The once thriving metropolis has turned into a maze of rubble. Headed for higher ground, he should be going in the right direction, deeper into the heart of the city, where continuous explosions are deafening but not loud enough to drown out disturbing screams coming from people he cannot see.

He rests against one of the few remaining walls and gives the phaser rifle he found minutes ago a quick but thorough inspection, hoping he will have better luck with it than its previous owner. The scope is clear, the rifle’s power cells fully charged. He switches its flashlight on and off, blocking its light with his palm. Tempting as it may be, leaving it on would draw unwanted attention. The commander has come this far by staying off the main roads, but he can’t get to his destination solely by diving through destroyed alleyways.

An Altonoid fighter flies past, searching for lives to extinguish. Dirt on Tony’s dress uniform helps camouflage his presence, and as soon as the fighter has disappeared from view, the young commander pushes off the wall and starts running toward the end of this alleyway. His injuries hinder his running speed, but his resolve compensates for his pain.

He lifts his rifle and places a finger on the trigger guard while gathering sufficient momentum to dash across the next main street. Not a great strategy, he admits to himself, but it might work if he is fast enough. He’ll have to cover about 20 meters out in the open, which will take about seven seconds at his current speed. A lot can happen in seven seconds.

Nothing in his unique lifetime could’ve prepared Tony for what he experiences when he enters Divisadero Street and is forced to jump over the many bodies littering the road. Not all of them are dead yet; a few of them, mangled beyond recognition, beg for help with raised, bloody arms trying to grab him. Tony evades the grasping figures. Though it’s breaking his heart, there’s nothing he can do for them. They are slowing him down, however, and thus increasing the chance of him getting caught. Around him, other shadows are sprinting through the night, but whether they are survivors, Altonoids, or figments of his frightened imagination is impossible to tell.

Close by, a salvo of phaser fire blows up another building, sending out a fast-moving carpet of thick dust that consumes everything it touches and robs Tony of his vision. Confused and with each breath more labored than the last, he tries to make his way through, but his feet connect with something hard. The ensuing fall causes him to smack his face against the unforgiving pavement and knocks his phaser rifle out of his hands. He hears his weapon sliding away, its heading concealed by the dust cloud.

Hurt, unarmed, flat on the ground, blinded by and choking on dust, surrounded by the dead and suffering, he curses his plight. The dust cloud is slowly dissipating, and Tony discovers he is halfway across the street and facing the right way. He spots his phaser rifle, out of reach but intact. Before making any sudden movements or other rushed decisions, he checks if the coast is clear.

It isn’t.

Partially obscured by the concrete mist, an Altonoid fighter hovers in the air, close enough to see in all its terrifying glory, and it aligns its phaser banks on the tips of both wings with Tony’s position. There’s no room for doubt; it’s coming to get him. As the enemy ship accelerates, Tony gets up with a pained grimace and sprints for his rifle. He doesn’t notice his wounds aching, his eyes itching, or his lungs filling with dust. There are only three things in this universe that matter at present: the fighter, the rifle, and seeking cover. If he can make it to the bushes and their adjacent gardens, he’ll be safe—or safer, at any rate.

The second he picks up his weapon, the fighter unleashes its green phaser beams at its running target. Intense heat imbues the air as the phaser beams slice through the asphalt with unimaginable speed, igniting pockets of dust along its path. The bushes ahead are near—just a few more yards to go. The commander sets his rifle to its highest power setting and prepares for a short demonstration of its capabilities. He leaps backward into the bushes while firing a series of powerful phaser bursts at the Altonoid vessel, right when one of the phaser beams misses him by a hair.

Tony hits the ground sprawling, automatically hidden beneath the foliage. He saw the phaser bursts disperse in the fighter’s shields, and it might’ve distracted them briefly, but a rifle is no match for a _Foora_ -class attack ship, which can take on multiple shuttles with ease. It has bought him a few seconds, however.

Without looking back, he scampers off, racing through the bushes, through nicely maintained backyards of burning houses, and past a wrecked shuttlecraft that has been reduced to a macabre garden ornament. The fighter’s engines humming above him fuels his desire to flee. Forgotten is the battle, the inconceivable death toll, the pain and sorrow that permeates the globe. He should know better, having undergone extensive training, but all he can focus on is that low rumble chasing after him.

He scales a fence and tries to land swiftly and gently. His injured state doesn’t permit such a hasty maneuver, though, and he slips and lands on his back in somebody’s garden, its loose dirt softening his fall. As Tony faces the sky, too terrified to blink, the fighter’s searchlights come on to scour the abandoned residences. Soon, they will find him.

Tony is still holding on to the heavy phaser rifle, his right hand firmly clasping its grip. Set on its maximum setting, it’s capable of instantly vaporizing a modest rock formation. He lifts it carefully and points it where the _Foora_ -class fighter should appear. Unexpectedly, its pilot switches off his searchlights, shrouding the area in emerald darkness, but Tony senses its proximity as he lies there, every muscle tensed, waiting for the axe to fall.

And there it is! The fighter swoops into view. Before Tony can pull the trigger, the fighter fires its phaser beams at an unseen target in the sky and speeds off, having found a more interesting prey.

Although this particular danger has passed, Tony can’t bring himself to resume breathing just yet and rests on the garden’s soil like an unburied corpse while staring at the clouds, trying to remember a time when they weren’t suffused with a persistent green hue. It’s hard to imagine a few hours ago he was having a pleasant conversation with his wife, chatting about the weather and getting ready for that fancy gala party. Now, he is lying in some poor bastard’s garden in a crumbling city he used to call home.

Tony sets the rifle to the lowest kill setting and gets up. Between rows of flattened houses, Alta Plaza Park lies dead ahead, untouched in dreamlike serenity, as if this entire war business never happened, as if all will be rebuilt and all casualties will be resurrected at sunrise.

It looks too calm… He’d better stay clear of it. No more beauty and hope on this planet. With that notion lingering in his mind, he scrambles to his feet and disappears into the next alleyway.

* * *

A few more blocks and Tony will arrive at Geary Boulevard, the long street where the party would’ve been held and where his father must’ve been when the Altonoids started their relentless carnage. A rare intact sign that reads “Steiner Street” confirms he is heading in the right direction.

Tony pays no heed to the unlit buildings, nor does he dwell on how the skyscrapers’ obliteration has forever mutilated the skyline. He just runs as fast his injured body can carry him, avoiding detection by crossing junctions in a flash, staying close to the walls, and keeping up the pace. Reaching Geary Boulevard is his sole purpose. So he trains his gaze on the horizon and shuts out everything else. Although…

Multiple shadows graze the walls on the other side of Steiner Street. Tony keeps on running, but the shadows distract him; he’s losing his hypnotic fixation on Geary Boulevard. The more his perception of the world around him grows, the more he sees the blackened ruins hemming him in, the more he feels the sting of his wounds, the more he smells the scent of death, the more he hears the moaning of dying strangers, the more he—

A green phaser blast explodes mere inches away, sending fragments of a nearby brick wall flying. Acting on instinct, Tony hits the ground and rolls to shelter, which consist of a piece of shuttle hull plating sticking up from the pavement. His assailants quickly discover his hiding place, but the hull plating withstands this sudden outpour of violence. It shudders with each phaser blast, but it holds—for now. Multiple impacts suggest there are two—possibly three—Altonoids attacking him from across the road.

Outnumbered and outgunned, he looks around, taking in the inescapable darkness and destruction, and realizes this scenario applies to every desperate soul courageous enough to offer resistance during this brutal invasion. He remembers the many slain civilians he encountered along the way. That young medical cadet’s lifeless, gray eyes… Tony curls his upper lip into a sneer. These Altonoids are going down. It may not make much of a difference, but these Altonoids are going down.

He sneaks a peek over the hull plating to ascertain the positions of his rivals—three in total. This increases the intensity of phaser fire his hiding place has to endure; it’s buckling under duress. Judging by the angles of attack, the enemy is zeroing in on him like a hungry pack of wolves. Ignoring the pain, Tony stands up, aims his rifle with lightning-fast precision, and shoots the middle Altonoid squarely in the center of mass before dropping behind cover again. That’s one.

Another phaser strike breaks loose a part of the hull, giving the ensuing phaser blasts that make it over the edge free rein. White-hot packets of energy miss the commander by a whisker. Worse yet, the chipped plating is sizzling and on the verge of melting.

Both Altonoids try to render his hiding place useless by splitting up and circling it, effectively flanking the commander—a decent if not predictable strategy. Just as the rightmost Altonoid has progressed far enough to pose a risk, he appears in the scope of Tony’s readied phaser rifle, exactly where Tony expected him to be. Before the Altonoid can take aim, Tony squeezes the trigger and shoots him in the chest. That’s two.

If Tony doesn’t act accordingly, the third soldier will be on him soon. Powered solely by adrenaline, Tony leaps over the hull plating to make it act as a buffer between him and the last Altonoid. Strafing to the right, he directs his rifle to where the Altonoid should be after basically having switched places, ready to hit his mark as soon as he shows up in his crosshairs.

Nobody’s there.

From out of the blue, a strong arm clenches around his waist, and a serrated knife is pressed against his throat. “Don’t move,” a gravelly voice says. Tony can’t turn to face his attacker, but he’s willing to bet his threatened life that it’s the third Altonoid. “I will make you suffer for what you did to my friends.”

Lacking alternatives, Tony holds perfectly still. “Okay. You got me,” he says with every iota of calmness he can muster, stalling for time with no idea what to do next. “Please tell me, how many people have you killed today, excluding me?”

It takes a few long seconds for the Altonoid to respond. “Twelve.”

“Why? I want to know why.”

Tony’s calm reaction puzzles the Altonoid. “I don’t answer to you. You’re as much a murderer as I am.” His hold tightens and the knife’s blade pierces the skin on Tony’s neck. But then, he hesitates and asks, “How many Altonoids have you killed today?”

Tony takes great care to keep from sounding accusatory, opting instead to convey a childlike innocence. “Two. Just now. I was trying to find my father. You attacked me. I had to defend myself.” His distracted opponent slightly weakens his grasp, inadvertently enabling the young commander to gently lower the phaser rifle clutched in his right hand. “What did those twelve people do to you? Did they attack you?”

Tony hears and feels the Altonoid sigh. “I will kill you, but I will make it swift.” A distant trace of sympathy in his voice. “Any last requests?”

“Yes,” Tony whispers. “Forgive me.”

Tony presses the lowered phaser rifle against the Altonoid’s right shin and pulls the trigger. The phaser blast—fired from point blank range—smashes his captor’s right leg, making him howl in agony.

Immediately, Tony knocks away the knife, frees himself from the Altonoid’s loosened grip, and propels his rifle’s stock against the soldier’s face. His opponent falls backward and makes a rough landing. Cradling his maimed leg, blood streaming from his nostrils, he stares wide-eyed at Tony, who pulls himself together after that dizzying maneuver, plants his feet steady on the ground, and rests his phaser rifle in his hands, its muzzle still hot from firing.

Deserved or not, Tony pities the soldier. Apart from subtly grooved facial ridges and abundant, bristly hair, Altonoid physiology differs little from a human’s, and it’s hard not to empathize with an injured sentient being. Wincing in pain, the Altonoid reaches for his handphaser, which is secured to his belt. Tony aims his phaser rifle with an outstretched arm and shakes his head, hoping to break his adversary’s resistance with one simple word: “Don’t.”

The enemy soldier bares his teeth and mutters indistinct curses while reaching, slowly, for his weapon. Tony doesn’t want to shoot him, not even after having witnessed the Altonoids’ atrocious war crimes. Killing people from afar is easier—horrible but less personal. Without the intensity of a firefight or a ship battle, ending a life is exposed for what it truly is: abhorrent. The Altonoid leaves him no choice, because his fingers have reached the surface of his weapon.

Something from deep within forces Tony to shut his eyes while squeezing the trigger, knowing he won’t miss. With a nauseating thud, the phaser blast hits the Altonoid. When Tony reopens his eyes, the soldier lies dead on the pavement, staring at the battle-filled sky, a smoking phaser wound in his chest. Tony stands there, rooted by conflicting emotions, the phaser rifle in his hand pointed at its latest victim. With effort, he tears his gaze from the corpse. Geary Boulevard is up ahead. He’s so close.

Tony moves onward, past the man he killed. At first, he’s walking, then jogging, and soon enough he’s full-on sprinting toward Geary Boulevard. From the opposite direction, clusters of wounded survivors are carrying themselves away from the large street. As the commander passes by, his eyes meet theirs for a split second of mutual understanding, their shared desperation glimpsing through before they push on into the night. But Tony doesn’t waver…

…because he has reached Geary Boulevard.

He finds cover by a lone wall—all that remains of a structure it once supported—and sees smoldering buildings, blistered tarmac littered with smoking debris, and survivors who are frantically running around, seeking shelter or a way out. There are no enemy troops here at present, but innumerable bodies lying scattered about reveal the slaughter taking place tonight. Green phaser beams light the area, instigating fiery displays of violence, their origins concealed in smoke and confusion. This battle may have been lost, but it’s not over yet.

“All right,” he says to himself, his voice lost in the pandemonium of combat. “This is where Dad—” A sudden eruption of screams precedes a group of survivors emerging from Steiner Street, the same ones he saw leaving Geary Boulevard moments earlier. Now they’re scurrying toward Tony with expressions that go beyond despair, beyond fear, and enter the realm of utter terror.

“Move!” one them shouts at him.

The fleeing mob reaches Tony before he has a chance to react and knocks him aside, causing him to bang his head against the wall and hit the ground face first. Surrounded by countless trampling and kicking feet, his injuries take their toll and the world darkens, the sound of explosions and screaming softens, and the pain subsides to nothing but an unpleasant memory. With increasingly blurred vision, he observes a couple of Altonoid fighters rounding the corner and targeting the crowd. He barely notices their phaser beams whizzing by and setting off distant screams of panic. It’s happening to someone else, not him. It’s only a dream, the end of a nightmare.

* * *

“Wake up, buddy,” a friendly voice says. For a second, Tony believes he is in bed. Then he hears the fighters roaring up above, smells the scent of char, and feels the cold night air sending chills up his aching spine. He knows exactly where he is: facedown in a puddle of dust, here at Geary Boulevard.

A pair of fingers presses against his neck.

“Come on, buddy. This is no place to take a nap. The Altonoids can be here any second.”

Tony recognizes the voice. All drowsiness vanishes in an instant, and he attempts to stand up.

Lieutenant Commander Ralph Blue’s jaw drops. “Is it really you?” He helps his son to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard there was a party at midnight,” Tony says while trying to get reacquainted with vertical life. “Sorry I’m a bit late.”

Ralph is at a loss for words, but his broad smile speaks volumes. The hug that follows speaks libraries. Right this moment, the war and its accompanying horror and destruction fade into the background, as father and son revel in having found each other amid the chaos. Sure, they both look terrible, their scorched dress uniforms unsuccessfully concealing bruises and lacerations, but what matters is the present, the fact that they are both still alive. That makes one forget one’s injuries, albeit for an instant.

“I don’t understand,” Tony’s father says after letting go. “How did you get here? I mean, they’ve got us pinned down, killed everybody in sight, blown up practically every building, bridge, installation…” A few blocks away, several detonations wipe out yet another structure, as if on cue. “They’ve turned San Francisco into a death trap, a place to flee from, not to come rushing in headlong.”

Tony has heard that concerned fatherly tone on more than one occasion. “With all due respect,” he replies wryly. “To get here, I survived two starship crashes. I was nearly burned, shot, and stabbed to death. I almost drowned, almost had my throat slit, managed to evade hordes of angry ground troops and fleets of fighters against incredible odds. Oh, I also crashed the Mercedes. And all of that for you to tell me that coming to your rescue isn’t such a great idea in the first place?” His ranting causes his phaser wound to act up, and his knees buckle. Ralph prevents him from falling. “But it sure is good to see you,” Tony continues with a subdued grin.

“Thank you for being here.” Ralph gently wraps Tony’s arm over his shoulder to support his injured son and help him walk.

“This jogs my memory,” Tony says, recalling his escape from Station A-12 and how his future wife had volunteered to carry him through the corridors—a story they had told his father many times over.

Ralph gasps. “Emily! Is she okay?”

“I hope so. I sent her away on a shuttle packed with survivors.”

Ralph gives his son’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “Then she’s in good hands. I saw a batch of shuttles evacuating the Embarcadero, by the Ferry Building. I think that’s our best shot at getting out of here.”

“I agree.” Tony peers through the mist of ashes and vaporized rubble. “The sooner we leave, the better.”

Ralph picks up Tony’s phaser rifle without letting go of his son and shifts his balance to get a firmer grasp and bear more of Tony’s weight. “Comfy?”

“It doesn’t beat piggy back ride, but I suppose it will have to do.”

They start down the road, due east, toward the docks and hopefully their rescue.

* * *

The Altonoids seem to be ignoring this location for now, but they can reappear any second. They’re still wreaking havoc across the city, across the entire world. Geary Boulevard has become an unidentifiable path of smoldering debris and corpses. Save for a lone survivor hastening past, the area is devoid of movement. Above the twisted remains of skyscrapers, the night sky refuses to shed that green tint caused by unrelenting weapon fire. The ascending road obscures any potential danger lurking beyond the next couple of blocks.

Without speaking, the two ragged officers climb the hill. The threat is far from over, but ever since Tony has been reunited with his father, he feels safe. He has found someone to lean on—literally. Though Ralph has not been able to avoid injury either, he carries his son with fortitude, staying vigilant while keeping his phaser rifle at the ready for any defensive actions necessary.

There are a million things Tony would like to say, but it’s best to focus on getting out of here as fast as possible. However, mutual silence offers little comfort, so Tony speaks up nonetheless. “I can’t believe I actually found you.”

“Technically speaking, I found _you_ ,” Ralph says with a smile highlighting his familiar laugh lines. “Once the attack began, I hid beneath a torn awning and waited till the brunt of it was over. Then I began my search for survivors, to find the flag officers who attended the party, but the venue was smashed.” He clears his throat to rid it of welling sadness. “The only officers in dress uniform I could find were already dead or dying. I… I didn’t stop to think about it. I just kept searching.”

“Did the thought of escaping cross your mind?”

A deep, weighted sigh. “To be honest, I think our chances of escaping are slim at best.”

“That won’t keep us from trying anyway.”

“We Blues have always been a stubborn lot.”

As they approach the hill’s summit, the creeping realization dawns on them that there’s no telling what might face them on the other side. Is it simply apprehension or are the distant cries for help really getting louder, the explosions closer?

“If I had stayed with the Q Continuum,” Tony says, seizing the last opportunity for having a conversation before their trials resume, “all of this would have happened regardless of my decision. The battles, the loss of life, this determining invasion. It wouldn’t have mattered one—”

“I would’ve died alone in my house,” Ralph says, bringing Tony’s monologue to a complete stop, “thinking about my son, wondering where he was and why he never came back. Maybe you haven’t made a great impact on the universe yet, but I’m just glad to have you by my side.”

Tony lets this notion sink in, then gives his father a playful nudge and brings up a heartfelt smile, which departs rather quickly, because they’ve reached the top of this hill and the view from there is disheartening at best.

Geary Street (as it is called east of Van Ness Avenue) is unrecognizable. Only the street layout suggests this used to be part of the Starfleet capital of the world. In between the roads lies nothing but rubble, some of which aflame. There isn’t a single building within visual range that hasn’t been destroyed or severely damaged. Shuttle crash sites and neighborhood-wide fires illuminate the warzone.

This isn’t a city anymore. This is hell.

It takes a few minutes for them to encounter a reminder of the residential area this once was: a row of darkened buildings, an oasis in the blackest of deserts. Two Altonoid fighters whoosh past, activated impulse engines flaring. Their sudden appearance startles Tony and his father, who freeze up, unable to move until they know what’s in store for them. The _Foora_ -class vessels break formation and initiate a steep climb. Showcasing impressive piloting skills, both fighters perform a symmetrical U-turn and descend from the skies to execute a coordinated nosedive aimed at Tony and his father. They have been spotted! The Altonoid vessels, now next to each other, are closing in rapidly. Four searing phaser beams emanate from their weapon arrays to melt the asphalt off the road.

Abruptly, Ralph turns left and runs into Polk Street, dragging his son along with him—and not a moment too soon. Behind them, green phaser beams plow the tarmac into grotesque sculptures. The fighters have to make another synchronized maneuver to line up with Tony and his father, giving them a minuscule window of opportunity to bolt for cover. They jump over heaps of bodies and rubble, which have paved the road with a burning stench. Driven by survival instinct, they master the rugged terrain—fatigue and injuries be damned.

Sooner than expected, the two fighters reemerge side by side and unleash another salvo of phaser fire. With sensors jammed, hitting mobile targets is challenging, and a stray phaser beam pulverizes the foundation of a large metal building less than a hundred yards up ahead. As the fighters pull up and disappear into the night, the metal building’s ground floor subsides. In a matter of seconds, the building keels over and threatens to block the officers’ path.

The steel behemoth collapses onto the street, knocks over the remains of a few houses on the opposite side, and embraces its final resting place with a scraping howl. While overturned and unsalvageable, its internal structure has stayed mostly intact. Metal doesn’t crumble as easily as brick or concrete does, which works to the officers’ advantage. Given the circumstances, going straight through is the only way forward, so Tony and Ralph rush toward the building and dive through the nearest broken window.

Adjusting to the darkness, Tony gathers they have landed in someone’s office. The entire room has turned sideways, so they have to stand on the rubble and furniture that has accumulated on the concealed facade. Fumes thick as soup make breathing difficult and fill their eyes with tears. Orienting oneself in a toppled building is problematic, and the gloomy conditions aren’t helping. What’s worse, the walls shudder and rumble ominously at random intervals.

The glow of nearby flames shines in from an opening doorway, enabling Tony to see his father’s uncharacteristically worried expression. The doorway appears to have been placed horizontally against the ceiling. Of course, that’s because the office has been flipped forward. Ralph activates the flashlight atop his phaser rifle, casting a beam of light through the smoke. Without saying a word, father and son clamber into the next room… which looks even less inviting than the one they left.

Fires ignited by clipped pipes offer adequate compensation for the power outage in this harrowing corridor, which is a mere eight feet wide but at least fifty feet long and sports a notable forty feet of headroom. A few minutes ago, this was a sizeable office space like any other, containing dozens of desks and workstations. Now, nearly everything has converged on what used to be the frontage. The left side of this newly formed hallway is carpeted; its right side consists of ceiling tiles and broken light fixtures. Without pattern, that persistent shuddering and rumbling increases and decreases in intensity.

Tony and his father try to cross piles of furniture and equipment while avoiding burning terminals. “They’re out there, firing at us,” Tony says, climbing over an upended desk.

“Could be,” his father replies. “I’m not entirely… Watch out!” Ralph shoves his son away from a tumbling cupboard that travels a good twenty feet before barely missing them and crushing a nearby stack of chairs. Plenty of these dormant projectiles dangle above them from various heights, waiting for the right moment to succumb to gravity.

They continue their journey despite this bizarre corridor’s hazards. Yet, the more Tony gets to explore this interior gone askew, the more he gets the creepy sensation that this is the last place they should be.

“Come on!” Ralph says when he notices his son lagging behind.

“Something’s not right.”

“There’s no time for this.”

“No, listen!” Tony lifts a hand to his ear. Ralph pauses and leans against a slanted cabinet to listen somewhat impatiently—to humor his son, more than anything. Tony, squinting at the rifle’s flashlight, remains silent long enough to make his point.

“They’ve stopped firing at us,” Ralph says. “They must’ve given up. Come on, while we still can.” The beam of light turns away from Tony as his father resumes climbing.

“We should go back.”

“What?” There’s more than a hint of anxiety in his dad’s voice.

“Trust me. They’re either gone or waiting for us on the other side. We shouldn’t be heading north anyway; we should be heading east, toward the piers. Going back is our best option.”

His father gives it some thought and shines the flashlight back and forth until he reaches a conclusion. “You could be right. Good thinking.”

“It would’ve been good thinking if I’d come up with this before we entered the bloody building,” Tony mutters as they turn back.

Once they’ve reached the office they started from, Tony slides down the flipped doorway, into the room, and strikes a blunt chair leg with his right thigh. Clenching his jaw to refrain from saying something unholy, he gets up and determines the chair leg hasn’t caused much more damage than his limbs have already sustained. He then assists his father so he can enter the room with a bit more flair.

They exit the metal wreck the same way they entered it: by jumping through the open window. The cityscape hasn’t improved during the minute they spent indoors, but Tony is glad he’s out of that infernal office and shares a relieved smile with his father. They’re about to get moving when a giant blast knocks them to the ground. A green phaser beam fired overhead blankets them with blistering heat and sprays debris in all directions. Father and son have no choice but to cower and wait for the worst to pass. Acting on a childlike instinct he had considered lost, Tony grabs his father’s hand and holds on tightly, finding comfort in this simple gesture.

After what seems like an eternity, the phaser beam moves off, and the two officers sneak a glance at the building. Four ear-splitting phaser beams originating from the other side are carving it to pieces.

“You were right,” Ralph shouts as he pulls his son up.

Tony spits out a mixture of gravel and blood and dabs at the filth that has accrued on his mouth, staining his sleeve with ashen and red. “Let’s just get out of here!” With that, they sprint back toward Geary Street, leaving the doomed metal building behind.

The young commander has no idea from where his exhausted body draws the energy to make him run as fast as he does, as though it is fueled by will power alone. He manages to keep up with his dad as they round the corner and enter Geary Street once again, which will lead them to the docks. But there’s no reason for joy…

…because they stare straight into the phaser banks of a fully armed Altonoid fighter hovering two dozen feet above the ground, its nose lowered at the two men as if to size up its prey. Tony’s heart sinks and drags his conviction with it. Despite the ordeals they have suffered through, he was confident he could save his father’s life. Speechless, they gawk at the invincible warship that has quashed their hopes of survival. So far, it has refrained from firing, but there’s no chance whatsoever it will grant them mercy. Perhaps its pilot loves toying with his helpless victims prior to delivering the killing blow. It’s impossible to tell with the pilot obscured by the fighter’s opaque canopy.

“No matter which way you turn, there’s no escaping them,” Ralph says while laying his rifle on the tarmac. He sticks his hands up and slowly approaches the hovering ship, as if he can somehow persuade it to stand down. “Make a run for it,” he says without taking his eyes off the enemy vessel. “While you still can.”

Tony bites his lip and stares at the sword of Damocles looming over them. His dad is diverting the pilot’s attention for his sake, but he finds himself frozen in place.

Ralph notices his hesitation and says with a side-glance and a reassuring smile, “Now, son.”

There’s so much Tony wants to tell him, so much he wants to share, but the circumstances permit him only the briefest of summaries: “Goodbye, Dad.” He collects the remnants of his mental and physical strength and dashes off, away from his father and away from the Altonoid vessel. Almost immediately, he hears the heavy shriek of phaser fire.

But the area is being lit by red phaser beams, not green ones!

A pair of battle-worn Starfleet fighters barrel down on the Altonoid fighter, impulse engines roaring, weapons blazing. Red phaser beams hit the fighter dead-on, and it starts dropping from the sky while attempting a frenzied counterattack. Tony and his father, thirty yards apart, duck for cover to avoid the enemy’s random phaser fire. Ralph tries not to get caught under the plummeting wreckage, which spews shredded armor and equipment as it enters an unrecoverable spin. Having defeated their mark, the Starfleet fighters fly past in quest of a new target. Their rickety state makes one wonder how far they’ll get before suffering the same fate as their fallen sister ships.

The Altonoid ship fires blindly until it crash-lands but a few meters from Ralph, who is lying on the pavement, ensnared between the burning wreck and a scorched apartment complex. Random phaser beams from the dying fighter have struck the five-story building and sliced deep, molten crevices into its masonry. Already weakened from earlier attacks, the structure tries to remain upright, as it has done for hundreds of years, but gravity wins out.

Tony watches it collapse, watches as his father lifts an arm in a futile act of self-protection before a torrent of stone swallows him whole.

Forgetting everything around him, Tony scrambles toward the massive heaps of brick, glass, and broken furniture and starts digging, praying he’s searching in the right spot. The newly formed dust cloud impedes his efforts, but that isn’t the main problem; some pieces of debris are simply too large to pick up. If he were a Q, he could’ve hoisted those materials without as much as a wave of the hand, but now, stuck in this bruised human form, his excavation attempt is nothing short of pathetic.

“Can you hear me?” Tony cries out while continuing his hopeless rescue mission. Soon enough, his determination morphs into bitter desperation. “Dad!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. With a swift gesture, he brushes aside tears conspiring with dust to hinder his vision, and he resumes digging while flames consuming the crashed fighter provide him with a sporadic light source. There’s no reply whatsoever, no sign of there being a living person trapped in the rubble. Tony keeps shouting, foolish as it may be with soldiers prowling the streets. If only his father responded to his pleas.

Having displaced every movable object in the immediate vicinity, Tony sits down, panting with exertion, forced to take a break. With shaking hands, he wipes clots of sweat and grime from his forehead, then clutches his shoulders, uncertain of what to do next—besides fighting back tears. Despite his unfocused stare, he spots an oddity among the debris: a strip of white fabric.

With newfound vigor, Tony goes back to digging. A conflicting mixture of relief and dread rages through his mind as he lifts a tabletop strewn with bricks and throws it aside with the little energy he has left. His inkling was correct: the strip of fabric is part of a Starfleet uniform, worn by his motionless father. A concrete slab presses down on his torso. In one final effort, Tony grabs the heavy slab by the edges and pushes it away.

Bloody and battered from head to toe, Ralph Blue lies prone in the rubble. His death must have been instant. As Tony watches in stunned shock, any lingering trace of hope evaporates and his heart disintegrates on the spot, leaving an empty shell in its stead. It’s as if all his courage, all his fighting spirit has yielded to pure acknowledgment. There is nothing left to do, no trick to pull, no way to fix this. Tony falls to his knees by his father’s side and reaches out to hold his hand one last time, only to recoil at the sight of his dad’s mangled fingers. Horrified, he wraps his arms around himself and whimpers, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

He faces the distant piers, where the last shuttles—a handful of them at most—take off one by one to transport evacuees to destinations unknown. The chaos of earlier has passed; a serene yet frightening silence has enfolded the city. The Bay Bridge lying collapsed in the sea, the charred streets, the ruins—they all bear silent witness to the tragedies that took place today. The first sunrays are shining through the green clouds. A new day has begun; an era of human reign on Earth has ended.

Tony will stay here with his father.

Alongside the Altonoid wreckage, a spacecraft touches down and opens its aft door, blinding Tony with its interior lights. A backlit figure emerges, its intent unclear. Tony should get up and run, but he remains there, kneeled, staring at the approaching shadow, having no opposition to offer. Once the figure is close enough, it gently picks him up and carries him aboard.


	5. Chapter IV

Soothing tremors of a spacecraft in flight wake Commander Tony Q from a dreamless sleep, and he finds himself sitting in the back of a large shuttlecraft intended for public transportation. Its many seats are empty, however.

Despite grogginess clouding his vision, he sees the shuttle hasn’t escaped Earth’s atmosphere yet. It has levelled off, flying ten thousand feet in the air while broad daylight shines in through its portholes. The countless cities below resemble collapsing volcanoes, yet there’s no indication of suffering anymore. It’s unlikely anyone is left to suffer; if there is, their hardship will be over soon, swallowed whole by eternal oblivion.

As if in a reflex, his subconscious presents him with the sight of his dead father lying buried in the rubble, every bone in his body shattered. Through sheer force of will, he shoves aside the jarring memory and rises from his seat. His muscles object to being molded into any other shape than cramped misery, and even the slightest movement causes cold sweats. The metal scent of blood clings to his tattered dress uniform. He has almost gotten used to pain and filth covering his mortal shell. Almost.

Up in front, a middle-aged Starfleet officer is piloting the shuttlecraft. That must be the man who carried him to safety. With a considerable degree of effort, Tony shambles toward him, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the otherwise pristine center-aisle carpet.

Once Tony is about halfway, the pilot says, “I hope you’re going to clean that up, because I know I won’t.”

Tony instantly recognizes the master of sarcastic delivery. “Q?”

It is indeed Q. He pivots in his chair and meets Tony’s tired gaze with a jovial smile, which quickly turns into a huge frown. “My goodness, you’re a mess! Didn’t your father ever tell you not to go playing outside in your clean uniform?”

Tony opens and closes his mouth several times in a row before gathering the coherence to say, “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“There, there,” Q says, patronizing him. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be busy burning to a crisp on Geary Street. Don’t humans often show their saviors a little more gratitude?”

“You son of a bitch!”

“See, how hard was that?” Q swivels back to the shuttle controls.

“After all this time,” Tony says, inching forward, searching for words, “hoping you were out there, somehow, watching over me. You were never there. And now, while I’m at my weakest, you show up to laugh at me?”

“Yes, that about covers it,” Q says cheerfully while flailing at the controls, pretending to use the interface instead of his powers to steer the ship.

Tony halts next to his former mentor. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“Oh no, that’s not true,” Q says in an indignant tone. “You were throwing the biggest barbecue party in human history when I plucked you off the planet.” He smirks at his own joke.

“You refuse to understand why I rebelled.” Tony’s voice gains strength, whereas his body has none. “I couldn’t sit by and watch those Altonoids destroy all I hold dear. What choice did I have?”

“Oh, there’s always a choice,” Q says, not as upbeat as he was moments ago. “What person in his right mind would prefer being trapped inside a weak collection of biological matter over an immortal life as a supreme being?”

“A human would, out of compassion. That’s why the Continuum appointed me as one of their members in the first place, to study the qualities they lacked.”

“Yeah, but look at you! You’re an absolute embarrassment. You’re wounded, broken, bent, a limping animal. You had such potential.”

“I know,” Tony says with more sadness than they both expected. “But I gave it up. You want to know why?”

“Well, yes,” Q says, unable to resist answering rhetorical questions.

“It’s called friendship. It’s called loyalty. It’s called love. Concepts beyond the Continuum’s grasp.”

Q scoffs. “Blasphemy.” The ensuing awkward pause demonstrates Tony has made a valid point. To prevent him from scoring valid three-pointers, Q asks, “Are you familiar with another concept ‘beyond the Continuum’s grasp’?”

“I don’t—“

“It’s called failure.”

“What?”

“Look around you.”

Reluctantly, Tony complies. The shuttle has gained enough altitude to enter orbit around the scorched planet. Not far ahead, a swarm of Altonoid warships besets Earth Spacedock, and battling starships take up the rest of the view. The majority of the intact ones belong to the Altonoids.

“Earth’s final stand,” Q says, nodding at the carnage. “Pitiful, pitiful. Behold their mighty, cardboard war machines, exchanging glorified laser fire and puny projectiles. Waste of ammo, I’d say. The spacedock is already lost.”

Tony hates to admit it, but Earth Spacedock is coming apart, sending red-hot chunks of hull the size of skyscrapers toward the planet it’s already orbiting dangerously low.

Q spares the starbase a tiny double-handed wave. “Bye-bye, Admiral Harriman and the poor souls who trusted him with their lives. This, Tony, my dear friend, is failure at its finest, at its purest.”

Together, they watch the starbase spiraling to its doom in slow motion.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Q says.

Tony has no defense to offer. Fatigue and dizziness take hold, and he silently curses his feeble condition.

“Aw, don’t feel bad about it,” Q says without making any attempt to hide his menacing tone. “Here, I know what. Why don’t I show you the state the of universe had you chosen to stay with us?”

Before Tony can protest, Q snaps his fingers and summons a universe-altering flash. Prominently in view, Earth Spacedock is still falling from the sky, Altonoid warships are still swarming all over, and Starfleet vessels are either significantly damaged or adrift like the dead bulks they are.

“Would you look at that!” Q says with faked amazement. “Nothing has changed!” Without touching the controls, he projects the astern view onto the front window. “Earth is still burning.”

Tony flinches at Earth’s image, the flames of crumpling nations too bright for his tired eyes.

“People in the back!” Q shouts.

Lifelike facsimiles of Tony’s dead friends materialize out of thin air, enough to fill nearly every seat. The senior staff of the _Kennedy_ , his colleagues at Starfleet Headquarters, his father—they all shout “Failure!” in angry unison before vaporizing on the spot.

Q gives him a surprisingly fierce glare. “Failure,” Q says, emphasizing each syllable. He snaps his fingers and restores the original universe in a white flash, which, painfully enough, means everything stays the same.

Without breaking off his unforgiving stare, Q commands the shuttle to evade the one-sided battle and engage warp engines. The falling spacedock, the fighting starships, and the burning planet fade into a series of long streaks of iridescent light as the shuttle hits warp speed. Finally, after too long a time, Q breaks eye contact, takes a deep breath, and leans back in his pilot’s chair.

Tony wipes away the tears that have formed despite his best efforts to mask his sorrow and asks, “So why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“End my miserable existence. Get it over with. I’ve become an insect to you, haven’t I? What makes me any different from those who were killed? Why should I live and my father die?”

“Oh please, don’t give me that.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase.” There’s a subtle edge to his voice. “Why didn’t you leave me to die?”

Q crosses his arms. “Like you said, your life has become unimportant, nothing but a trivial matter. I’m free to do with it as I please. The Continuum doesn’t care anymore.”

“But do you?”

Q lets out an annoyed sigh. Instead of answering the question, he points at Tony’s bloody torso and sneers, “Maybe you should have that looked at. You only live once, you know.” Q snaps his fingers and vanishes in a flash of light, leaving Tony in a transport shuttle full of empty seats.

* * *

**Starbase 43 – April 22, 2382 – Stardate 59303.3**

Exhausting doesn’t begin to describe living on this starbase for the past week. The Altonoids’ sudden takeover of the Sol system has dampened everyone’s spirits. Virtually every person aboard Starbase 43 has reason to mourn. Relatives, loved ones, friends—none were spared in this horrifying attack, as survival became a matter of random luck.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Ernest Baxter dares not imagine what the incalculable refugees on this starbase are going through. He wasn’t born in the Sol system, so he cannot begin to comprehend the full scope of their trauma, but the loss of Earth and the surrounding colonies is devastating at best.

This starbase, one of the bases nearest to Earth that haven’t been attacked by Altonoids yet, has been a complete chaos ever since the invasion started. A constant flow of docking spacecraft brings in hordes of the confused and wounded. Every part of the starbase is crowded: crew and civilian quarters, passenger decks, waiting rooms, sickbays… morgues.

Baxter is on his way to a far-off section of airlocks to serve as a welcoming party of one for the occupant of an arriving shuttlecraft. The transporters are constantly in use and the turbolifts are packed, forcing him to traverse congested promenades and hallways. Wherever he goes, he gets a firsthand experience of chaos, unease, and fear… mostly fear. Nobody speaks of it, but an undeniable sense of dread fills up every room, a buildup of apprehension choking any budding sign of relief. Nobody knows what’s next. Nobody wants to know, including Baxter, so he does what everyone else does: finding some way to cope, even if that coping mechanism merely consists of keeping oneself busy.

As he reaches the correct airlock, he opens his medkit for a quick inspection. From a medical tricorder to a compact trauma kit, everything appears to be present. Here’s hoping he recalls the few superficial medical trainings every officer is obligated to partake in. By the looks of it, the spacecraft has already connected itself to the airlock. However, its pilot makes no attempt to make an entrance just yet.

* * *

An opened medkit and a bloodstained dress uniform lie in a corner of the transport shuttle that brought Commander Tony Q to Starbase 43. Using the vessel’s scarce facilities, he has patched up the more severe injuries, cleaned himself up, and replicated a fresh standard-issue uniform. He may look better, but he doesn’t feel it, sitting hunched over the helm station, watching the pilot screen.

“ _Logging into Starfleet network_ ,” the onboard computer says.

He has been postponing this long enough. “Access Starfleet’s personnel database. Display Lieutenant Commander Ralph Blue’s file.”

The computer shows a recent photograph of his dad, accompanied by a summarized biography and other relevant information.

Tony blocks out the image of his father happy and alive the same way he blocks out the memory of his demise—unsuccessfully. “Process the following update.” Difficult as it may be, he is the one who should do this. These words, though hard to utter, must be spoken. “Date of death: April 17, 2382. Time: unknown. Killed in the line of duty. End of update.”

“ _Authorization required_.”

“Authorization Tango Alpha Eight Five, as reported by Commander Tony…” He hesitates, as if repulsed by his full name. “Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue.”

“ _Personnel file updated and closed_.”

He ruminates for a handful of seconds, then nods to himself and says, “Display Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue’s file.”

Tony stares at his picture, taken the day he became first officer of the USS _Kennedy_. Hard to believe he was once the dapper young man on the screen. That version of him doesn’t exist anymore. That… boy was a fool, his abundant naivety rivaled only by his arrogance. “Process the following update: change subject’s full name to Tony Blue.”

“ _Authorization required_.”

“Authorization Tango Alpha Eight Five, as reported by Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue. End of update.” The last time he’ll have to refer to himself by that name.

“ _Personnel file updated and closed_.”

Commander Tony Blue allows himself a short-lived smile.

* * *

To Lieutenant Baxter’s relief, the airlock opens, and none other than Commander Tony Q comes stumbling out. Baxter sizes up the surprisingly young commander. Granted, with twenty-six years of age, the lieutenant isn’t exactly a hoary war veteran either—his sharp but friendly features and cropped, auburn hair help maintain his youthful appearance—but somehow he’d expected the famous officer to be older. He pushes these inconsequential thoughts aside and salutes the commander. “Welcome aboard Starbase 43, Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue. I am Lieutenant Ernest Baxter.”

For reasons that elude Baxter entirely, Tony grunts at the “Q” part. “At ease, Lieutenant,” he says, eyeing Baxter’s attire—a command uniform instead of a medical one. “This is going to be quite a spectacle,” he mutters beneath his breath, loud enough for Baxter to hear.

Missing his cue, Baxter opens his medkit and takes out its medical tricorder with the finesse of a drunken Klingon, spilling an assortment of medical equipment onto the floor before apologetically putting them back in.

Tony arches an eyebrow. “May I ask what your function is?”

“Uh… yes, sir. I’m the chief helmsman of the _Achilles_ ,” Baxter says while waving his medical tricorder in the general vicinity of the commander.

“I requested medical attention, not a pilot with a medkit.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Wounded survivors have flooded the starbase, the sickbays are crammed, and the entire medical staff is swamped. All available personnel have been asked to assist in tending to the injured.”

Tony raises the palms of his hands. “Listen, this can wait. I’ve already stopped the internal bleeding and treated the serious wounds on the way here, and—”

“According to my readings you still have a few severe bruises and other physical trauma requiring examination.”

“Yes, and according to those readings I’m currently standing on my head! You’re holding the bloody thing upside down.”

Flustered, Baxter turns his tricorder around and reinterprets its data. Tony, unwilling to tolerate any further delay, limps past. “Hey, where are you going?” Baxter asks, going after him.

“I have to find Emily,” Tony says. “My wife,” he adds in response to Baxter’s puzzled expression. “If she’s even here. Most shuttles were shot down. She probably didn’t make it, but if she did…”

A vague recollection of Tony marrying a fellow Starfleet officer surfaces in Baxter’s mind. “What’s her full name and rank?”

“Huh? Oh. Ensign Emily Christina Blue.”

Baxter presses his combadge. “Computer, locate Ensign Emily Christina Blue.”

Tony grimaces. “We don’t even know if she’s—”

The starbase computer interrupts him. “ _Ensign Emily Blue is located on deck 814, promenade 14-Alpha_.”

Tony’s aspect turns on a dime from sullen to elated. “She made it!” He hugs Baxter, who is a bit uncertain how to react to this mood swing.

“Congratulations, sir,” Baxter says while trying to escape the unexpected embrace as courteously as possible.

Tony lets go and—with newfound energy—begins searching for the nearest turbolift.

“Perhaps you should take it easy, Commander,” Baxter says, hurrying after the limping commander once again. “Your medical condition isn’t… Oh, what the heck.”

* * *

Neither Commander Tony Blue nor Lieutenant Ernest Baxter could have guessed that such a large and diverse representation of sentient lifeforms would fit into the turbolift they’re riding to Emily’s last known location. Despite the uncomfortable setting, Tony is bouncing on his toes, smirking at Baxter, who’s awkwardly pressed up against a purring Caitian.

The turbolift doors open to reveal a sea of creatures—human or otherwise—obscuring promenade 14-Alpha. Multileveled, rife with waiting rooms and restaurants, encircled by a walkway boasting a splendid view of docked starships—this promenade is an impressive feat of engineering, but the sheer amount of people currently in it exceeds its intended capacity at least threefold. It’s so crowded it’s challenging to see anything of the carpet or furniture.

They descend the main stairway and soon become lost in the masses. Wherever Tony looks, beings of all types wander around in a collective daze. Most of them are hoping to be reunited with loved ones, like Tony is now, or waiting to hear what’s next, whether it be sharing a small room with another group of survivors or boarding a vessel that will whisk them away from here.

It’s impossible to cross the promenade without getting shoved aside or yelled at by these wayward souls. Above the cacophony of talking, bellowing, squealing, and whatever you can call this racket, a newsreader is feeding swarms of refugees with updates on the current state of affairs. Tony doesn’t focus on any of it; he keeps skimming the hordes in hopes of finding his wife. So far, his only accomplishment is losing sight of Baxter.

Lieutenant Ernest Baxter is nearly getting used to navigating a starbase this congested. He has managed to maneuver himself toward a wall terminal to access Emily Blue’s personnel file. Knowing what she looks like might be a good idea when searching in a throng of this magnitude.

Commander Tony Blue considers using his combadge to reach his wife, but there’s no way they’ll hear each other over the noise. He gradually becomes aware of a building commotion and pauses to listen to the news broadcast reverberating through the promenade. “ _—fall of Andoria and Tellar Prime, the home planets of all founding members of the Federation have been defeated._ ”

“That can’t be good,” Tony mumbles as he resumes his search.

“ _—attacks on colonies on Federation borders suggest we are under heavy attack from the outside as well as the inside._ ”

Unlike his fellow listeners, Tony doesn’t submit to the desperation this news brings, grave as the situation may be. The prospect of reuniting with his wife defends his tenuous optimism with fervor. If only he could find her… He keeps gently nudging others aside in order to move through the crowd, and sometimes one of those persons nudges back. Tony understands this behavior, but when someone clasps his upper arm, he wrestles it free, shoves the offending arm out of the way, and hopes it doesn’t belong to an eight-foot-tall Nausicaan.

“Commander,” the arm-clasper says. It’s Baxter.

“Sorry I pushed you.”

“No problem. I think I know where we can find Ensign Blue.”

Tony must be the only one smiling on the whole starbase as Baxter escorts him to another section of the promenade. It takes a fair amount of willpower to cross a room filled with anxious humanoids and assorted beings, but soon enough they reach their destination: a lone table, a boulder in a river of people.

“She should be here somewhere,” Baxter says to Tony, who climbs the table and begins waving his arms like there’s no tomorrow. Few bother to pay attention to the young commander; they deem the newsfeed more interesting.

Just when it dawns on Tony he is making a fool of himself, he notices another person has joined him on the table. That someone grabs him by the shoulders and starts kissing him passionately. It’s Emily!

After such a whopping kiss, they take a long look into each other’s eyes. Emily slowly shakes her head. “I thought you didn’t make it,” she says, unsuccessfully fighting back tears.

Tony tries and fails to come up with a witty retort. Instead, he wraps his arms around her the way a drowning man would cling to his rescuer. He’d be perfectly content with simply holding her until the end of time.

Sooner than feared, she asks him, her sweet voice unable to mask its sad implications, “Where’s your father?”

Tony lets silence speak for him, for saying it aloud would break her heart as much as it did his. She understands, as she always does, and draws him nearer. They’ve been through hell. No words could weigh up against the feeling of hugging each other, resting their heads on each other’s shoulders.

Lieutenant Ernest Baxter watches the two embracing officers and decides to wait a little while before telling them the floor is better equipped for standing on. As the moment passes, the news broadcast catches his attention. “ _This just in. The Alpha Centauri system has been completely overrun by Altonoid forces. Not a single planet has been spared by the enemy fleet. Latest intelligence reports confirm the Altonoids are progressing to nearby systems. If you are in the vicinity of Alpha Centauri, prepare to evacuate_.”

Panic cascades through the hundreds of people who have huddled together by the news monitors. Alarmed, Baxter hops onto the table, where Tony and Emily have downgraded their hug to a blissful holding of hands. “Did you hear that?” he asks them.

“Hear what?” Tony says, too busy doting on his wife to re-enter the real world just yet.

“The Altonoids have taken Alpha Centauri and are spreading out to nearby systems.”

“Alpha Centauri? That’s mere light years away,” Tony says, adopting Baxter’s worried tone.

“Exactly. I am under orders to send you to quarters RD4372. Undoubtedly, the evacuation will begin soon, but you’ll have to go there first. Understood, sir?”

“Yes. RD4372.” He exchanges a concerned glance with his wife. Baxter is preparing to leave, but Tony isn’t done with him yet. “Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you.” Despite the bittersweet circumstances, Tony offers him a genuine smile. “You’ve earned yourself a commendation. Your captain should know he has such a fine officer on his ship. Tell me, who is currently in command of the _Achilles_?”

“Captain Stephan Rinckes,” Baxter says politely before disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

With the flashlight atop his heavy phaser rifle as his only light source, Captain Rinckes creeps through the corridors. Red alert panels snaking the walls flicker on and off, showering the passageways in an intermittent red hue. Other than that, his surroundings are pitch-black. The captain’s dark blond hair partially covers his hawk-like features as he checks his rifle’s status indicator. Its energy levels are running low, although he can’t remember firing it. His sleeves are torn, his knuckles bloody, but he can’t remember his last fight. There’s nobody around, not here, not in the last couple of corridors. So why does he feel as if a thousand eyes are watching his every move?

The hallways’ curvature makes it impossible to see beyond the next twenty yards. Seconds, maybe minutes, pass by until he encounters a lone doorway on the left bulkhead, its broken doors crooked but intact enough to shield the room behind it. Quietly, almost surgically, he peels open the doors and aims his phaser rifle as fast as his tightened muscles allow.

The room is empty. Even the window, which should display an elaborate star field, show him nothing; his flashlight shines into an infinity of darkness.

Suppressing the urge to give in to the void, Rinckes backs out and collects the strength needed to press on. Before he can set off, a shadow rushes past, through a corner and into the endless maze. Rinckes’ heart misses a beat and compensates by pumping twice as fast. Compelled yet apprehensive, he initiates pursuit, his rifle lifted so he can follow its flashlight’s vague light blot. There are no sounds other than his panting and heavy footfalls as he dashes through the never-ending passageways in search of that apparition.

Rinckes halts near another doorway—or is it the same one?—to catch his breath. After mustering his courage, he quickly turns his upper torso along with his phaser rifle to shine its flashlight through half-open doors into an empty room. No stars in the window. He is all alone.

From out of nowhere, voices begin whispering to him. Startled, he swings around but sees no one while these whispers encroach upon him and grow furious. He can’t make out what they’re saying and panic swells, choking him with invisible hands.

His flashlight goes dark, engulfing the corridor with the same infinite darkness he saw through the window. Despite an uncontrollable urge to call for help, all he can say is a soft, desperate, “Melanie.”

Rinckes opens his eyes and stares at a dun barrier he comes to recognize as the ceiling of his quarters aboard the _Achilles_. As the confusion between sleeping and waking wears off, he slowly sits up and rubs his temples. The computer detects the captain has woken and automatically synthesizes him a glass of water with the small replicator on his nightstand. The captain soothes his dry throat with a sip of ice-cold water and realizes he is covered in sweat. This nightmare is no stranger to him; it’s intensifying with each visit. He tries to shrug it off, as always, and inspects his attire. He has been sleeping in uniform once again. It is becoming a bad habit. “Computer, what is the time?”

“ _The time is 2312 hours_.”

This prompts the captain to jump out of bed. He permits himself the luxury of rest as infrequently as any starship commander should during an invasion this cataclysmic and it is wreaking havoc on his sleep schedule. What was to be a quick nap became a lengthy slumber. After allowing himself thirty seconds to tidy his appearance, he hurries out of his quarters.

As the memory of his bad dream fades, Rinckes enters a turbolift and bumps into its sole occupant: the chief medical officer.

Like the captain, Doctor Chris Kingsley is in his mid-forties. With his short, red hair and boyish face, the doctor has the guise of a bully, and he has adjusted his bedside manner to match. His mischievous grin doesn’t help either.

“You have been waiting for me,” Rinckes observes.

“Indeed I have, Stephan.” Dr. Kingsley is the only staff member on a first-name basis with the captain, a privilege not to be overused in public.

“What is it you want to tell me?”

As usual, Dr. Kingsley has his answer ready. “I have prepared sickbay for evacuees in need of medical assistance. I have assigned all medical personnel to their respective duties, making them pull double shifts. I have sought to it that nobody on this ship can move a muscle without knocking over a stack of medical supplies and… Well, I did everything you asked.”

“Good,” Rinckes says. A short silence ensues. Nondescript elevator music would have been fitting. “And that’s why you decided to wait several minutes in the turbolift nearest to my quarters instead of using your combadge?” He knows this question will encourage the good doctor to speak his mind.

Dr. Kingsley jumps at the chance. “You are on your way to welcome the new first officer aboard, right?” He doesn’t await a reply. “Among my medical staff, I have fumbling and stumbling cadets who are older than him. Sure, his service record is exemplary, and several high-ranking officers have recommended him for the job—”

Rinckes lets out a grumble. “And when Starfleet selects him as our new first officer, there isn’t much I can do about it.”

The doctor’s eyebrows rise to the point of breaking. “You didn’t protest?”

“Why should I?”

“You and I both know ‘Tony boy’ managed to climb the ranks solely because he had a benefactor with the powers of God,” Dr. Kingsley says, making a lot of expressive gestures, as he is prone to do when ranting. “The kid is twenty years old.”

“Technically, he might be older,” Rinckes says, his calm demeanor contrasting with the doctor’s stridence. “He has spent a few years as a Q, unbound by the space-time continuum. He could’ve lived entire lifespans over the course of those years.”

“You mean he could be a driveling old geezer masquerading as a young man?” The doctor snorts at the suggestion. “Why not request a Mausaurian first officer? With their reversed aging, you could have a wise XO the size of a toddler. Sure, you’d have to change his diaper and read him a bedtime story once in a while, but other than that he’d make one hell of a fine officer you can carry wherever you go.”

“Chris, are you questioning my decision to comply?” Rinckes asks as the turbolift doors open.

“Um… Yes! And I’m pretty damn sure I’m not alone in this.”

Rinckes brings up a subtle smile. He has gotten used to the doctor’s antics. “There’s one way to find out who’s right,” he says while stepping out the turbolift.

Dr. Kingsley follows him. “Please, Stephan. Let me come along.” He tilts his head and widens his grin. “I don’t want to miss this.”

* * *

“He’s running late,” Commander Tony Blue says to his wife. After staying at the starbase itself for half a day, he was assigned first officer of the _Achilles_ and directed to this XO’s office, which doubles as their sleeping quarters for the time being, what with the overflow of evacuees. The previous XO, Commander Jennings, must have been a highly capable first officer to be field-promoted and given his own command during a crisis like this. He has left Tony with big shoes to fill.

Ensign Emily Blue has seated herself on a banquette. “The captain is entitled to be late,” she says. “And it’s your duty to make sure he never will be again.” Tony’s lack of a humorous reply prompts her to showcase a reassuring smile. “Relax. You’ll do fine.”

Tony rubs his fingers to stop them from tingling. “I’m grateful Starfleet has given me this chance, but it’s been three years since I last served aboard a starship. I was a completely different person back then.” He shifts his weight on the desk he’s sitting on—his desk, in his office, on a starship with a crew of over 400, of which he’s second in command.

“Yes, you were a different person, someone with three years less experience, not counting the virtually infinite knowledge you gained as a Q.”

Tony sees where she’s getting at but dismisses the idea with a soft groan. “You know that’s not true. It has faded, mostly. There’s a limit to what you can store in this frail collection of carbon and water.” He realizes too late how harsh this must sound. “Sorry,” he adds immediately. Emily disapproves of him talking bitterly about being human, and the presence of a slight wrinkle in her nose reveals her displeasure. That wrinkle always means business.

Luckily, the door chimes, and Tony quickly dismounts his desk. Emily gets up to stand by his side and gently squeezes his arm as a token of reconciliation and support. “Come in,” Tony says to the door in his most mature voice.

Captain Rinckes and Doctor Kingsley enter the XO’s office. The interplay between the captain’s austerity and the doctor’s flippant smirk makes Tony’s stomach tense up.

“Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue,” Captain Rinckes begins.

“In fact, if I may be so bold,” Dr. Kingsley interjects, “he dropped the Q from his name a few hours ago.”

The captain is unimpressed with this tidbit of information. “Commander Tony Blue, then.”

“Hi, I’m Doctor Chris ‘Q’ Kingsley,” the doctor says as he vigorously shakes Tony’s hand. “I figured I might as well adopt the Q, since you weren’t using it anymore.”

“Chris, that’s not funny,” Captain Rinckes says.

“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t resist.”

Captain Rinckes clears his throat. “Doctor Kingsley is our second officer and chief medical officer.” He gestures at Tony’s wife. “Doctor Kingsley, meet Commander Blue’s wife, Ensign Emily Blue.”

“Ah yes,” Dr. Kingsley says while shaking her hand with the same fervor. “The ensign you nearly got killed two years ago when you decompressed an entire shuttle bay.”

Captain Rinckes doesn’t know how to react to this reminder other than blinking up a storm. Tony and especially Emily will never forget how, in the heat of the moment, Captain Rinckes had carelessly opened a shuttle bay door during their escape from Station A-12.

Emily intervenes to keep the awkwardness from spreading. “All right, Doctor, if your knowledge of our medical records is as amazing as your knowledge of our personnel files, we’ll be in safe hands.”

The doctor acknowledges her riposte with a nod and a wink.

“Commander Tony Blue,” Captain Rinckes says in a formal tone. “Sorry for the lack of decorum, but our strict schedule doesn’t allow any. You are hereby officially appointed first officer of the USS _Achilles_. I’m sure you’ll go above and beyond to serve to the best of your abilities.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

Captain Rinckes directs his attention to Emily. “Welcome aboard the _Achilles_. I have arranged for you to meet with our security chief. He’s waiting for you in the armory. Your first shift will begin shortly and I need you to acquaint yourself with the security staff. Be assured, serving on a top-of-the-line starship will be more demanding than guarding a quiet museum.”

“Yes, sir,” Emily says, doing her best to take that last remark in stride. With a brisk pace, she walks out of the office and into the corridor.

Once she has left, Captain Rinckes says to Tony, “I have an assignment for you.” Dr. Kingsley crosses his arms and listens closely as his grin turns sardonic. The captain either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I need you to—” A chirp from his combadge interrupts him.

“ _Bridge to Captain Rinckes_.” Tony recognizes Baxter’s voice. “ _The Altonoids will be arriving sooner than expected. Their ETA has been reduced from six hours to one hour from now._ ”

“Understood, Lieutenant. Do what you can to speed up the evacuation.”

“ _Aye, Captain. Bridge out._ ”

Captain Rinckes sighs. “Commander Blue, I want you to report to the bridge and assume command. Undock from Starbase 43 as soon as possible, but make sure every evacuee is given the opportunity to board the ship before we leave. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir,” Tony says seriously, dutifully, and—above all—nervously. He starts toward the corridor but halts upon realizing Dr. Kingsley is shadowing him.

Captain Rinckes has other plans for the doctor. “Chris, go to sickbay and make certain everything is in top order. We cannot afford any delays.”

“But, Stephan.” The doctor doesn’t even try to mask his disappointment. “Every member of my staff knows exactly what to do. I’ve briefed every single one of them personally. We could—”

“Chris...”

Just as Tony walks off and the doctor wants to throw in the towel, he spots Tony’s limping gait. “Look!” he says, overtaking the new first officer and pointing at his legs. “He’s wobbling! The kid needs medical attention. I can’t let him to go the bridge and take command without my supervision.”

Confronting the doctor, Tony says, “If you’d read my medical file, you would’ve known I have spent two hours being patched up in Starbase 43’s main infirmary prior to boarding this vessel.”

Dr. Kingsley’s smug smile plays up again. “Still, it would be advisable—”

“I’ve been declared fit for duty. I’m about to obey the captain’s orders, and I suggest you do the same.” And with that, the commander exits his office.

Before the doors shut behind him, Tony hears Dr. Kingsley say to the captain, with unmistakable sincerity, “I like him already.”

* * *

A turbolift brings Commander Tony Blue to the bridge of the _Achilles_. When its doors open, he notices the command center has benefited from the same modern design and technology as the rest of the ship. Especially that hovering, translucent holographic interface in the back half of the bridge appears to be every bit as modern as impractical. The prominent three-dimensional viewscreen displays the innards of Starbase 43, which is smaller but otherwise similar to Starbase 9 and Earth Spacedock, right down to the layout of its docking area.

The crew is staring at Tony in such abrupt silence that he suspects he has forgotten to put on a rather important part of his uniform.

He hasn’t.

Tony heads for the captain’s chair, currently occupied by an attractive officer in her early thirties. Her ethnicity is hard to ascertain, but with her tanned skin and dark hair, she has an exotic flair about her. Her face is all business, however; if she looked any more serious, her ponytail would explode, Tony’s sure of it.

He walks up to her, and his slight—but evident—limp sends his self-consciousness teetering over the edge of embarrassment. The only one here who is emitting friendly vibes is Lieutenant Baxter at the helm. Next to him sits a Vulcan ensign, manning the OPS station. The science station is operated by Lieutenant Kels, twenty-three years old and renowned for being one of the youngest chief science officers in Starfleet. She’s also the only Andorian bridge officer, undoubtedly masking the loss of her home planet like everyone else here—by burying it in professionalism. The other stations are staffed by lower-ranking officers. Even they are staring at Tony.

“Hi there,” he says. _Really? Hi there?!_ he scolds himself internally. _Too late to do anything about that. Keep going._ “I am Commander Tony Blue.”

He is greeted with a few muffled hi’s and hellos.

The attractive but serious officer rises from the captain’s chair. She’s shorter than Tony, which doesn’t stop him from feeling intimidated. “I am Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow, chief tactical officer.” Ice drips from her voice. “So you’re the new first officer?”

“That’s right,” Tony replies, squeaking rather than speaking.

“Shouldn’t you take command of this vessel, then?” she asks, as if challenging him.

“Yes. Please return to your station,” Tony says—with the correct timbre this time. Before she can follow this command, he adds, “What’s the status of the evacuation?”

“Everything is going according to plan. I trust you’ve studied Commander Jennings’ evacuation plan? It was his last action before his transfer.”

“I haven’t yet been able to wade through every detail. I’m merely interested in its status.”

“As you wish.” Erin Crow accesses her station, located behind the empty second officer’s chair. “Evacuation is 10 percent complete, as predicted in Jennings’ report. We have sped up the process according to his emergency evac procedures.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Tony says with forced politeness and he sits down in the captain’s chair. The bridge crew is still intently watching his every move. “Carry on,” he says in a slightly insinuating tone, reminding them successfully to get back to work.

Tony can’t help but notice that the bridge, with its rectangular shape, resembles an abundantly spacious coffin lined with the drabbest of tan colors. The cold demeanor of most of the crew doesn’t elevate the atmosphere either. How he misses the _Kennedy_.

* * *

Like her husband, it has been a while since Ensign Emily Blue last served on a Federation flagship. In fact, she had last set foot on a proper starship two years ago, when this very same vessel transported her from the Garcon Nebula to Starbase 9, which was destroyed by Altonoids shortly into the war. It seems like ancient history to her.

Her first mission entails being stationed halfway one of several passenger gateways connected to the ship, supervising an endless stream of evacuees in all shapes and sizes. They pass by without as much as a side-glance and disappear into the ship’s corridors, following the directions of Emily’s new colleagues.

She insists on giving the hundreds of evacuees a sweet smile, yet her cheeks are already starting to hurt. In this capacity, she feels like a redundant greeter, but she’s here to intervene should any trouble arise. Her phaser strapped to her belt, prominently in view, serves as a reminder that despite her cuddly appearance, she’s a force to be reckoned with whenever anyone should decide to exhibit unacceptable behavior. _The_ Achilles _is no cruise liner_ , Security Chief Lieutenant Gibbs had instructed her. Order should be maintained.

Countless droves of people are pouring out of the waiting rooms in this vast docking area, which is flooded in flashing red light, indicating the starbase has gone to red alert. Shuttlecraft are flying around in frantic disorder. Standing on her toes, she spots a _Norway_ -class vessel loading up evacuees as well. Everybody is trying to get off this starbase, and fast.

* * *

No sign of the captain yet. Commander Tony Blue is fine with his absence, because the evacuation is running on schedule.

“Evacuation halfway complete,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says.

“Almost fourteen hundred evacuees in ten minutes. Not bad,” Lt. Baxter says—out of turn maybe, but the commanding officer doesn’t mind.

“That means we have about forty-five minutes left. That’s more than we need,” Tony says, trying to sound reassuring despite inadvertently reminding everyone the unstoppable Altonoid fleet is a mere forty-five minutes away.

A console starts bleeping, which is never a good sign. This particular warning signal originates from the tactical station. Lt. Cmdr. Crow immediately checks to see what’s causing it, and her expression transforms from serious to seriously worried. “They’ve tricked us again.” The crew goes dead quiet, pausing to hear what’s next, even though they’re bound to dislike it. “The Altonoids are much nearer than our sensors led us to believe.”

While Tony tries to remain poised after having had the rug pulled out from under him, Lieutenant Kels is tapping hurried commands into her science station. “It’s true,” she says. Her blue skin has become a tad gray, the Andorian equivalent of blanching. “They’ve masked their hull signatures from our long-range sensors with some sort of temporal field. How is this possible?”

“Good old Loïdian engineering,” Tony says, though it’s nothing more than an educated guess. “How close are they now?”

“I can’t be completely sure,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says, sporting her ever-present scowl. “Sensor readings are still garbled. They could be right on our doorstep.”

“What are we going to do?” Lt. Baxter asks, voicing everybody’s thoughts.

With all the confidence he finds within, Tony composes himself and says, “We’re going to inform the captain.” Somehow, he presses the correct button on his left armrest. “Bridge to Captain Rinckes.”

No reply.

“Bridge to Ca—”

“ _I’ve seen the data_ ,” the captain says over the comm. “ _I’ll be there shortly. Rinckes out._ ”

“He is a man of few words,” Lt. Baxter says, noticing Tony’s puzzlement.

“Some things never change,” Tony says with a wry smile. He directs his attention to the Vulcan at the OPS station. “Sivar, how many—” Realizing he called the Vulcan by the wrong name, he shuts his mouth, shocked at his error.

The ensign swivels to face him. “I am Ensign Surtak. Who is Sivar?”

Sivar, the USS _Kennedy_ ’s science officer. Tony can’t believe he’d actually one day miss that guy, with his inability to laugh, his unfaltering placidity, his unwillingness to use contractions in his speech. This always got on the commander’s nerves, but Tony would trade in quite a few amenities in life just to have Sivar annoy him once more.

Ensign Surtak raises an eyebrow. “Sir?”

“Um… right,” Tony says while regaining focus. “How many operational shuttles do we carry at present?”

“Twenty-four in total, although I do not—”

“How many of them are equipped with functioning transporters?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Let’s put them to good use.”

“What are you suggesting, Commander?”

Tony had almost forgotten about the Vulcan tendency to ask the blindingly obvious. “Boost power to transporter systems,” he says, leaning forward in his chair, “especially the large cargo transporters. Lieutenant Baxter, clear all moorings and request permission to undock. Commander Crow, assemble a team of crewmen and make sure the shuttles’ transporters are overheating with the sheer amount of evacuees beaming in. I don’t want us to overstay our welcome, but I also don’t want anyone left behind.”

The crew carries out his orders without protest, except for a questioning grimace from Lt. Cmdr. Crow as she passes Tony on her way to the turbolift. He ignores her unspoken discontent and concentrates on the viewscreen.

* * *

Uproar surges through the masses. “What is going on?” Ensign Emily Blue shouts at Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs, the imposing, blond chief of security, who crosses a river of stampeding evacuees to reach Emily.

“The new first officer has ordered the passenger gates closed. I can think of only one reason: The Altonoids must be nearer than we thought.”

Emily gestures at the frightened evacuees who are trying to traverse the gate before it’s sealed off. “We can’t leave them!”

“Let’s hope your husband knows what he’s doing. Come along!” With that, Gibbs joins the rushing crowd in their push for the ship. Emily does her best to keep up.

The entire starbase has become even gloomier than it was moments ago. Instead of a safe haven, it has morphed into a gigantic death trap, like the attic of a burning house filling with smoke. Desperate people are trying to get themselves and their families to safety, and although some attempt to knock Emily aside, she can’t blame them for being scared.

Once Gibbs and Emily have reached the airlock, the security chief guides her toward the airlock controls, just around the corner, where six of her new colleagues are waiting for them.

“We’ve received word from the bridge. We’ve been cleared to depart,” a tough Coridan security officer says.

“We have to close the gate _now_ ,” another officer says.

With a short-lived trace of reluctance, Gibbs comes to a decision. “Ensign Munroz,” he says to the Coridan. “Stay here and close the airlock on my command. The rest of you, draw your weapons and follow me.”

* * *

On the bridge of the _Achilles_ , tension is mounting to nearly tangible levels. “Helm, why aren’t we departing yet?” Tony asks.

“The chief helmsman is adhering to protocol, Commander,” Ensign Surtak cuts in. “Passenger gate 2 has not been disconnected.”

Tony balls his hand into a fist. “We have to undock right away. We might…” He almost said “we might be too late already” aloud.

Surtak types a handful of commands into his U-shaped OPS console and says with enviable calmness, “It appears airlock 2 is closing as we speak.”

“Now we’re talking! Mister Baxter, as soon as you can, maneuver us toward the doors.” Tony sits back, unable to keep his left foot from tapping a nervous rhythm.

* * *

Hordes of refugees stare in confusion at the phasers being pointed at them as airlock 2 is sliding shut, denying access to their last chance of survival. Emily can hardly bear to look them in the eyes. She’s one of seven officers who are aiming their phasers—set to stun for all the difference that makes—at the refugees to prevent them from making a desperate dash for the airlock. She hopes no one is foolish enough to do so; she would have no choice but to open fire. The corridor behind her empties as those fortunate enough to have made it aboard disperse.

Once the airlock has sealed with a final metallic clunk, a force field activates to protect the people trapped in the passenger gate. It’s meant to keep them safe, but now it forms yet another impenetrable barrier between salvation and certain death. As the _Achilles_ sets off with aft thrusters roaring, Emily watches these poor souls through the airlock’s window hatch. Officers, civilians, children—they will be shown no mercy by the Altonoids.

If there’s one thing she has learned in her short career, it’s that following orders like these is harder than one thinks when signing up for the job. She’s about to turn away and deal with this on her own terms when the first couple of rows start disappearing in multiple blue transporter beams.

* * *

In the main shuttle bay, most of the parked shuttles are emitting blue light due to continuous transporter activity. Small groups of relieved evacuees are stepping out to be guided to their temporary housing by a cordon of Starfleet officers. Lt. Commander Erin Crow oversees this part of the evacuation from the bay’s control room, which offers a marvelous view of Commander Blue’s effective strategy.

“We’ve managed to increase the shuttle evacuation rate to 160 evacuees per minute,” an enthusiastic young officer standing next to her says. “That combined with our increased transporter usage has drastically improved our overall evacuation rate. Was this your idea?”

Erin Crow grits her teeth.

* * *

The _Achilles_ glides through the vacuum of Starbase 43’s docking area. The base has opened its space doors to unveil an unlimited field of stars and the inherent promise of escape.

“We are proceeding toward the exit,” Lt. Baxter says. “Initiating Pythagoras maneuver.” As enormous as those doors are, Starbase 43 was built in an era when starships were comparatively modest in size, and the _Achilles_ is too wide to fit through without tilting 30 to 45 degrees. The chief helmsman has to be careful not to hit any shuttles or passenger carriers intent on leaving the starbase at all costs. They’re buzzing past, under, and over the _Achilles_ in a death-defying scurry for freedom. It reminds Tony of that old saying of rats abandoning a sinking ship.

“Evacuation is 68 percent complete,” Ensign Surtak reports once the _Achilles_ has squeezed through the space doors. “Your plan appears to be working, Commander.”

Tony nods in approval. His anxiety hasn’t waned, but for the moment it appears he hasn’t forgotten how to command a starship. On the contrary, the initial hostilities toward him are dwindling, or maybe that’s merely because he sent Lt. Cmdr. Crow to the shuttle bay.

Just as Tony allows himself to settle back, Ensign Surtak announces, “Captain on the bridge.”

Tony jumps up to stand at attention. He glances to his right and sees Captain Rinckes stepping out of the turbolift. For some irrational reason, he feels a cold shiver running down his spine as the captain approaches the center of the bridge with his usual lack of cheeriness.

“Seems like you’re running the show today,” Captain Rinckes says, halting next to his first officer. “At ease, Commander.” With his tall and muscular physique, the captain is a daunting figure, especially from this close. “I heard other ships are copying the shuttle strategy you conjured up.”

“Once again we’re on the run,” Tony says.

Captain Rinckes stares off into an unseen, distant place of emptiness and says, “Just like old times.” It gives Tony the creeps, so he steps aside and lets the captain sit down on his rightful chair.

“Viewer aft,” Captain Rinckes says, and the viewscreen displays a three-dimensional, shrinking image of Starbase 43. “Continue on course for another 5000 kilometers, then hold position. Ensign Surtak, how many evacuees do we have aboard?”

“2624 out of 3478. Evacuation rate steady at 375 evacuees per minute. Estimated time of completion: two minutes and twenty seconds.”

“Is that enough?”

Lt. Kels—still a touch pale—processes the data on her console. “Impossible to say.”

“The _Star Scream_ , _Nova_ , and _Arancibia_ have undocked too,” Lt. Baxter says. “They’re assuming combat formation with us.”

“What?” the captain scoffs. “Do they actually believe we’re going to defend the starbase? Signal them to leave upon completing their respective evacuations. Starbase 43 is lost; our primary objective is to get the evacuees to safety.”

“Along with us,” Tony says with a wry smirk.

“You think we should stay?” Captain Rinckes replies without friendliness or humor. “I can have a shuttle prepared for you in seconds if you want to stay.”

Before Tony can say anything funny, the tactical station starts bleeping again. Tony rushes over to it and pushes the nervous ensign manning it aside. It takes a moment to interpret the incoming data. Everyone watches his every move until he says with a slightly trembling voice, “They’re here. They’re about to enter visual range.”

“Damn!” Captain Rinckes stands up and studies the viewscreen, looking for the first inevitable sign of trouble. “Tactical analysis.”

“Two hundred and fifty-eight vessels primed for battle.”

The captain remains speechless, as does the rest of the crew.

“But, sir,” Tony says, his gaze fixed on the tactical station. “Not all of them are Altonoid. Sensors are reading twenty-eight vessels of a different origin.”

“Explain, Commander.”

Tony swallows a big lump in his throat. “They are S’Prenn, sir.”

This leaves the bridge crew absolutely baffled, and they express their befuddlement with shocked gasps and soft muttering. The captain silences them by speaking up, a thin veneer of anger and disbelief coating his words. “Impossible. They would never ally themselves with the Altonoids.”

“The Altonoids and S’Prenn are charging weapons,” Tony says, dismissing a sudden onset of lightheadedness. “They’re almost on us.”

“We require at least one additional minute to beam the remaining 397 evacuees aboard,” Ensign Surtak says.

“And that’s just us,” Tony says. “The total evacuation is far from complete.”

A dark cloud obscures the stars on the main viewer, an ominous cluster of hostile starships, most of them featuring the Altonoids’ typical rectangular design. The others are indeed S’Prenn in origin, having the appearance of colossal spiders, ready to swoop down on their prey.

Lt. Baxter hesitates for a split second before asking the question on everyone’s mind. “Your orders, sir?”

Captain Rinckes watches as the fleet of warships approaches like a swarm of hungry locusts.


	6. Chapter V

“Time is running out, Captain,” Ensign Surtak says with the composure of a true Vulcan.

An armada of hostile vessels fills the _Achilles_ ’ holographic viewscreen, thereby covering a significant portion of the bridge. It’s as if you can reach up and pluck them from the stars. A few years ago, that’s exactly what Commander Tony Blue would have done, each warship a speck of dust compared to his infinite powers as a Q. Now, he only has a tactical station to work with. “The enemy will be within weapons range in twenty seconds.”

Captain Rinckes stares at the viewscreen, his mind undoubtedly racing, weighing all possible actions and their prospective outcomes.

“The _Orwell_ and _Chekov_ have undocked from the starbase,” Lieutenant Baxter says.

“Total evacuation is 82 percent complete,” Surtak says.

Tony sets his jaw. “Ensign, we’re talking about people. Don’t give us percentages, give us numbers.”

“That won’t be necessary, Commander,” Rinckes says, chin held high, chest thrust forward. “Abort evacuation. Get us out of here, Baxter, and signal the others to do the same.”

“Sir,” Tony protests. “Several of our ships haven’t been able to undock yet. There must be a way to buy them time. Or, at the very least, let us complete our own evacuation responsibilities.”

“Well done, Tony,” Rinckes says without any trace of emotion. “You’re a fine first officer, performing your duty, adhering to protocol. Well done. Baxter, engage warp drive.”

Baxter already has a new course laid in and executes the command without hesitation. There’s a faint shudder as the ship hits warp speed, and the starbase and its ominous backdrop stay in view while the _Achilles_ accelerates to well over 3000 times the speed of light. _Star Scream_ , _Nova_ , _Arancibia_ , _Orwell_ , and _Checkov_ , in addition to numerous shuttlecraft and other warp-capable vessels, follow suit and try to keep up.

“It’s not just my duty,” Tony says fiercely. “It’s _our_ duty to save as many as we can.” One could hear a pin drop as his stunned coworkers wait for the captain’s reply. The holographic representation of Starbase 43 about to be ripped apart by ravening warships adds even more pressure to the conversation.

“Your objection is noted,” Rinckes says as he sits back down.

Tony wants to continue his appeal, but it’s no use pressing the matter. In all honesty, he can’t think of any alternative strategy that might save the people trapped on Starbase 43. However, that does not exonerate anyone from giving up so damn fast.

On screen, Starbase 43 fires phasers, mile-long beams of red-hot energy making their way to the enemy fleet. Tony considers it a futile attempt at self-defense against such an overwhelming force, mentally drawing a somber parallel with Dad lifting his arms to protect himself from a collapsing building.

The crew watches quietly as the first enemy vessels unleash phaser fire and torpedoes at the starbase. Surreal as it may be, the S’Prenn, their former allies, join in on the attack, no holds barred, deepening their betrayal with every merciless weapon strike. One brave _Norway_ -class starship, the _Peninsula_ , undocks from Starbase 43, only to get blown out of the stars in a heartbeat. Hundreds of lives snuffed out in an instant. The fleet barely slows down while carrying out its bombardment. Even though the holographic starbase is shrinking as the distance increases, Tony can see its hull blacken. One by one, its phaser arrays are quenched until it is rendered helpless, but that doesn’t satisfy the fleet’s appetite. They want to see it burn.

“Viewer off,” Rinckes says. The buckling starbase and its attackers disappear, replaced by the bulkhead they obscured.

Seconds, maybe minutes, pass by while much remains unspoken. Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow re-enters the bridge and walks toward the tactical station, which is still being manned by Tony, who makes no effort to move over. In fact, he hardly notices her presence. “Commander, if I may,” she says with a hint of politeness. Evidently, the tacit friction on the bridge has mellowed her for now.

Tony ignores her because he has finally gathered the courage to ask, “Ensign Surtak, how many did we leave behind?” He glances at his captain to see if he’s going to object, but Rinckes does not grant him a response.

As if he has been expecting the question, Surtak has his answer ready. “Nineteen thousand two hundred fifteen.”

Tony clasps the sides of his station. “We left nineteen thousand two hundred fifteen officers and civilians behind?” He keeps repeating those numbers as if they were a mantra. When Rinckes looks at Tony through the corner of his eye, Tony meets his gaze and summons a wry smile. “That has to be a new personal record.”

The captain’s stare doesn’t change one bit. Better yet, nobody on the bridge dares to make a sound. Tony suspects he has crossed the line. His bravado slips and shatters as he awaits the captain’s reaction.

The captain pushes off against his chair and starts toward the tactical station while maintaining eye contact—an action so sudden it prompts Lt. Cmdr. Crow to postpone her attempts to retake tactical and she steps aside.

Rinckes halts a foot away from his young XO and towers over him. “How many people did you leave behind when you fled Earth?” Tony cannot answer that question, prolonging the uneasy situation, so the captain speaks for him. “There’s nothing you could’ve done. There’s nothing _we_ could’ve done. Accept it. Move on.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony somehow manages to say.

At last, the captain walks off. “You have the bridge, Commander Blue,” he says as he retreats to his ready room. The sharp tension on the bridge dissipates like a sigh of relief, leaving silence in its wake.

* * *

**Klingon space, USS _Achilles_ – May 7, 2382 – Stardate 59346.1**

Worn but functional would be the best way to describe the century-old Klingon outpost the _Achilles_ is orbiting. Federation and Klingon shuttles are flying to and fro, transporting countless officers and civilians brought here by dozens of starships, which are either in synchronous orbit or in ever-changing formation as new arrivals trickle through the ranks.

Stood by the window, Tony spectates from his and Emily’s quarters with wavering attention. Emily breaks him from his trance by saying something nonessential, grateful as he may be for the intermission. “It was nice of the Klingons to welcome us and our refugees into their territory,” she says, placing two cups of tea on the table by the couch.

“It would be nicer if they helped us fight back,” Tony says, lacking his wife’s casualness. “I always thought they were warriors, driven by honor, yet they claim this is not their war.”

“It isn’t.” Emily sits down on the couch and invites him to do the same.

Tony reluctantly accepts her invitation. “And it won’t be if they persist in their stiff-necked mentality.”

“At least be glad we finally have access to our quarters,” Emily says, trying to change the subject—without any result, because Tony is still gazing out the window, albeit from the couch now.

He shakes his head. “The Altonoids concentrate exclusively on Federation space; they steer clear of the Romulan, Tholian, and Klingon borders. There’s no clear motive for their actions. It’s as if they’ve merely got a score to settle. And now we have indisputable evidence that the S’Prenn are aiding them… Frankly, we’re at a loss.”

Emily doesn’t offer a reply. There’s nothing left to say about their enemies and allies. It is the way it is.

Tony gives up staring at the Klingon outpost and takes a good look at his wife. He has been so preoccupied with this war and being second in command of a Federation flagship once again that he has given her little consideration. “So how have you been holding up?” he asks, ashamed for not asking this earlier.

“Busy,” she says with a tired smile. “Having to control over three thousand scared people with a security staff of sixty-five was harrowing. I don’t know how we managed to do as well as we did. And you?”

“Busy,” Tony says, without the smile. “I can barely keep track of the days. The minute I start thinking about anything other than the present, I automatically arrive back in San Francisco at the sight of my father buried underneath the rubble.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off a brewing headache. “We haven’t even had the chance to mourn his death. I haven’t seen you crying. I haven’t cried.”

Emily caresses his hands. “All of this goes beyond you and me. We have lost so many friends, but we’re not alone in our grief. Almost everyone here has lost close relatives. You don’t see any of our colleagues mourning. They’re too busy doing their jobs, because that is what we’re left with. We are little cogs in a giant machine. If we give in to our pain, if we cave in and stop doing what we must, the machine will stop, and we will fall. Humanity would be lost.”

“What’s in that tea of yours?” Tony remarks dryly.

“Truth serum, I guess.”

After chuckling at Emily’s astute reply, Tony sips his tea and—for the first time since they’ve moved in—allows himself to take in his surroundings. Dominated by tan colors, officers’ quarters aboard the _Achilles_ are remarkably luxurious and roomy. The many ornaments and comfy furniture complete the feeling of a home away from home. In all fairness, he misses their bungalow, and he is convinced his wife does too.

Apparently, the truth serum is still in effect, because Emily says, “Did you hear about Commander Crow?”

“Yes, I heard she smiled today,” Tony deadpans. “They had to rush her to sickbay, but the doctor said it was unlikely to ever happen again.”

“Very funny.” Emily gives him a soft slap on the chest. “I’m being serious here.”

“Sorry. What about Commander Crow?”

“I recently found out her husband has been missing in action since the onset of the war. She used to be a lot more sociable, but his MIA status has embittered her.”

“Is that so?”

“It made me think about us. Rumor has it this ship and its crew will be sent back to the front.”

“It’s in the cards,” Tony admits. “But until it’s official, it’s nothing but a rumor.”

“A persistent one. It’s just… It made me think…”

“…about the possibility to resign our commissions and stay out of harm’s way.”

“Not very heroic of us, is it?” Emily says with a sweet but somewhat abashed smile.

“Who ever said we were heroes?” Tony stands up abruptly and starts pacing the room. “We’ve proven our tenacity, no question about that. And yet…” He halts near a framed holophoto to stare at the holographic image of his late father. “The thought has occurred to me more than once these days.” He turns to Emily. “We have a decision to make.”

* * *

Captain Stephan Rinckes is sitting in his ready room, catching up with the latest logs and developments while pondering their implications, when the door chimes. “Enter,” he says, using a perfect mixture of authority and volume.

Commander Tony Blue walks in, greets him with a nod, and sits down opposite the captain’s desk. “You’ve asked for my presence.” To his credit, Tony figured out a couple of days ago that the best way to initiate a conversation with the captain is by being the first to speak.

“It’s hardly news anymore,” Rinckes says, absorbed by the info on his translucent desktop screen. “We’re being sent back to Federation space.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Mind you, this isn’t some heroic endeavor to battle a few Altonoids and recapture bits and pieces of our territory. Take a look at this.” He throws his first officer a PADD. “The S’Prenn did more than just strengthen the Altonoids’ numbers. What you’re reading is the report on the technology used during the attack on Earth.”

Tony sums up what he reads. “Disabling Earth’s planetary shield grid; dampening sensors, communications, and transporters; upgraded weaponry, cloaking devices, and propulsion—it’s all traceable to the S’Prenn.”

“Correct.”

Before Tony can continue, the captain does it for him. “You want to know why? Why have the S’Prenn, once the Altonoids’ most powerful nemesis and our strongest ally, betrayed us, even though the Altonoids represent everything they do not?”

Tony fidgets with the edges of the PADD. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“That’s what we’re all thinking.” Rinckes heaves a weighty sigh. “So we’re being sent back to Federation space, not to be heroes, not to be liberators, but to find answers.”

Tony leans forward, anticipating this briefing’s next subject.

Rinckes cuts to the heart of the matter. “A couple of officers have petitioned for a transfer. I can’t blame them. The mission we’re about to embark on will not be without its risks.” He pauses to goad the commander into replying, with no immediate result. “Given the extreme circumstances, most of them must have concluded—”

“Don’t expect a transfer request from me and Emily. We’ve vowed to serve Starfleet to the best of our abilities, and this is a call to action we cannot ignore. For better or worse, we’re in this together.”

Rinckes did not foresee such a determined answer from the young man in front of him. For a moment, they share a glance of mutual understanding. They’re both going to fight for their cause, wherever it may take them. “Very well,” he says. “We depart tomorrow at noon. That will be all.”

“Understood, sir.”

Rinckes watches his first officer leave and keeps staring at the doors long after they have closed. After a while, his eyes are drawn to the nearby window, to the view of the stars. He recognizes several of them as belonging to Federation space. Disguised as the hallmark of serenity, they hold so many tragedies, so much beauty and emptiness, so much destruction.

And for some unfathomable reason, the captain believes with absolute certainty that his fate lies hidden among those stars, and those stars alone.

* * *

* * *

* * *

**In former Federation space, USS _Achilles_ – June 14, 2386 – Stardate 63450.5**

The lone window flaunts numerous constellations, and Captain Stephan Rinckes pensively studies their patterns and brilliance from the comfort of his desk chair. The captain’s dark blond hair is graying, the lines in his hawkish face have deepened, but other than that, his appearance hasn’t changed since he first took command of this ship. His ready room, like the rest of the _Achilles_ , isn’t as pristine as it was when this clandestine operation began, courtesy of several unavoidable skirmishes with the Altonoids. Soon, the battered _Achilles_ will hit high warp and head for its next destination and the perils it contains.

“Captain’s log, stardate 63450.5.” He rubs his temples and tries to collect his thoughts despite his fatigue. “We’re en route to the Nedron system in hopes of finding another piece of the puzzle that might explain why the S’Prenn are cooperating with the Alto Empire. I remain grateful for the Klingons outfitting the _Achilles_ with a cloaking device; without it, we would never have made it this far. Our current journey has proven hazardous even by our standards. Today we barely evaded another enemy fleet. Our sensors picked them up at the last minute. It’s hard to believe this whole region of space once belonged to us, because we are finding less and less indication of a prior Federation presence.”

A tranquil minute drifts by as Rinckes listens to the soothing drone of a starship in motion. He cannot for the life of him recall the last time he slept; by force of habit, he has been working nonstop for days on end. “Captain’s log, supplemental. We’ve been hiding, searching, wandering from planet to planet, chasing caches of information, and following up on every shred of intel for four years. Where is the backup we were promised? The _Achilles_ could use a major overhaul, and the crew is in dire need of R &R. We never expected this mission to take this long, and the setbacks are beginning to outweigh—” With a shudder, the captain realizes the view outside has been engulfed by the total blackness of space.

There are no stars outside.

Rinckes freezes up, yet he’s starting to perspire. He gets up from his desk and walks toward the window to take in the surreal, ink-black darkness. Something is amiss, but he cannot dare name it. The dark threatens to hypnotize him, to suck him in, and he forces himself to turn away. The lights in his office have dimmed to the lowest setting, rendering it near impossible to see anything, so he grabs the phaser rifle that has materialized on his desk and switches on its flashlight.

His breath bursting in and out, the captain exits his office and enters a familiar set of corridors, lit solely by blinking red alert panels. After a few paces, the ready room behind him vanishes into thin air, taking everything reminding him of reality with it.

He is roaming the desolate innards of Station A-12, his sweaty hands clasping the phaser rifle as he progresses through murky hallways, feeling as if a thousand disembodied souls are watching him. From the brink of oblivion, a distorted figure whisks by. “Stop!” Rinckes hears himself shout while trying to track the specter with his rifle. His voice echoes into the void. Defying his instincts, and not by his own volition, Rinckes chases after this apparition.

After rounding the sixth consecutive right-hand corner, the captain stops dead in his tracks. The corridor is littered with Starfleet uniform-wearing corpses—some of them flat on the carpet, others leaning against the bulkheads like marionettes long since abandoned by their puppet master. With apprehension as his sole companion, Rinckes shines the rifle’s flashlight at each slain officer he encounters. Their faces are pale, their eyes milky and devoid of pupils. It forms an eerie scene, and each corpse he inspects adds fuel to the lonely fire that burns within him.

Rinckes aims his light at the end of the corridor, where an isolated corpse lies on its back. With irrational carefulness, Rinckes inches toward it. The red alert panels short out, leaving the rifle’s flashlight as his sole light source even though it’s dwindling, succumbing to the darkness. He keeps it fixed on the dead officer—a woman. Her blonde hair obscure her face. The captain crouches beside her and tries to dismiss the sensation of being stalked by an unstoppable murderer hiding in his peripheral vision. The air is warm, on the verge of smothering him.

Gently, Rinckes pushes aside her clammy locks of hair to reveal her identity. “Melanie,” he says. She’s pallid, like the others, and her eyes are closed, complementing her peaceful death mask. “Melanie!” He has been frightened ever since the stars disappeared, but now he’s beginning to panic. Fear, mixed with pain and despair, dictates his every thought, his every move. He grabs her by the shoulders and starts shaking her in an effort to wake her up, but she remains lifeless…

Then, without warning, Melanie opens her eyes in a furious stare directed straight at him.

Unable to withhold a muffled scream, Rinckes awakens from his nightmare. His skin is sweaty, his heart is thumping a wild rhythm, and his lungs are doing backflips to keep up. He looks around, bewildered, and notices he’s sitting in his ready room with the lights dimmed. The window that heralded his nightmare displays streaks of stardust, indicating the _Achilles_ is at warp.

The doors across the room swish open and a shadowy figure enters.

Rinckes backs up in his chair, prepared to defend himself. “Who are you?”

The figure halts. “Lieutenant Ernest Baxter, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. The door was unlocked, and you—”

“Why are the lights off?” Rinckes asks, still disoriented and confused.

Baxter, featureless in the artificial dusk, briefly hesitates before saying, “We are in silent mode, Captain. Standard procedure when travelling under cloak. Are you all right, sir?”

“What is it you wanted to say?” Rinckes asks while regaining his composure, downplaying his embarrassment by ignoring it altogether.

“We’ve evaded another squadron of Altonoid vessels. We will arrive in the Nedron system in nineteen hours.”

“Another squadron? Unusual activity for this area,” Rinckes says, more to himself than to Baxter. “Maybe the intelligence reports we acquired are correct.”

“Let’s hope so.”

The shadowy figure leaves and Rinckes is alone once again. Stacks of PADDs holding relevant files beckon him to go back to work, seducing him with the promise of hidden clues. He picks one up and begins reading, only to throw it back on the pile moments later. Outside, iridescent shafts of stardust rush by, consoling him in hypnotic monotony, keeping the darkness at bay.

* * *

Commander Tony Blue picks a biobed and hops onto it. The _Achilles_ ’ main sickbay is dimly lit—a telltale sign of the cloaking device’s activated state.

Doctor Chris Kingsley emerges from his office and marches over to him. “I regret to inform you there’s no cure for ugliness.”

“Very funny, Doctor.” Tony still finds it hard to believe that, of all people, this particular chief medical officer doubles as counselor for the duration of this mission, but the crew has learned to roll with this sarcastic individual’s punches. “You know I’m not a big fan of these pre-mission checkups. I mean, if I believe there’s something wrong with me, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Maybe that’s because there’s always something wrong with you,” Kingsley says. “Granted, you’ve taken an impressive amount of beating during your current human stint, but medically speaking you should be able to jump and frisk around like a little schoolgirl.”

Tony lets him rant. It’s best not to interrupt the doctor when caught in a new variant of his infamous monologues. He means well; he just loves the sound of his voice.

“Somehow, and I think it’s out of spite, you manage to keep limping. Honestly, I’m done rearranging your bones and muscles. I’m done polishing old phaser scars. I’m done running laps with you in holographic recreations of Olympic stadiums.”

“Doctor…” Tony says, successfully hiding his amusement, “shut up and fire up the bloody biobed.” He is grateful to be one of the two persons allowed to issue orders to the chief medical officer.

Kingsley has another trick up his sleeve. “I could make this examination last hours, days if necessary,” he says with a slightly unhinged grin. “I could even declare you unfit for duty.”

Tony decides to give up and stay silent. Surprisingly enough, it works.

Assisted by the biobed’s sensors, the doctor conducts the examination by waving a medical tricorder over his patient and—as the good Doctor Kingsley is wont to do—by assuming a severe aspect while studying the data, as if he has found a horrible affliction, only to shrug it off and continue the checkup. Sometimes, it makes Tony wish for another doctor. Any doctor, really. Even a farsighted, one-armed Klingon with psychopathic tendencies would do.

Kingsley glances at the biobed’s readouts. “You’re completely healthy, as you should be at twenty-four years of age. You are hereby officially cleared to set foot on Nedron Eight. Please try not to limp too much during the away mission. I understand you think the crew will respect you for it, being a fallen hero and such, but I can assure you it won’t do any good.”

Tony refrains from replying. He’d better not encourage him.

“Fine. The limp joke has worn out its welcome,” Kingsley says as he tosses his tricorder aside. “Just make sure you don’t get any other medical ailments, missing limbs, or whatever I can make fun of, okay?”

Struggle as he might, Tony cannot stifle a brief chuckle. “Is this your way of telling me to be careful?”

“Um… Yes.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint you.” Tony gets up and heads for the exit, the limp in his walk slight but noticeable.

* * *

**Nedron System, USS _Achilles_ – June 15, 2386 – Stardate 63452.7**

Dimmed lights suffuse every corner of this starship with a sense of gloom one never quite grows accustomed to. Captain Rinckes sits behind his desk in his ready room, using his personal access console to review earlier investigations regarding the S’Prenn’s influence on the war. Some of these reports go back as far as the last time the _Achilles_ visited the Nedron system—six years ago—under the command of the late Admiral Harriman.

“You might have been closer to a solution than you could have imagined,” Rinckes says to a picture of Harriman on one of the reports.

His lowly lit monitor highlights several related subjects. Rinckes scrolls through the list, and his heart skips a beat when he spots the subject “Station A-12 Debacle.” He selects it, causing images and a brief summary of events to fill the screen. From the short table of participating ships, he selects the USS _Sundance_ and summons images and specs of the _Prometheus_ -class vessel. After selecting “crew” and the stardate on which the _Sundance_ was lost, he is confronted with a photo of his younger counterpart. Its caption reads:

Captain Stephan Rinckes – Captain – b. 2334

At the click of a button, the next crewmember appears. He can’t bear to look at the profile picture, even though it holds no secrets from him. Every time he closes his eyes, every time his thoughts stray, he sees it, an image more vivid than life itself. It is welded into his memory. As a result, he can only bring himself to glimpse at its immutable caption.

Commander Melanie Simons – First Officer – b. 2351 d. 2380

Quickly, before he might change his mind, he selects “next.” And again, and again. Every entry of every member of the _Sundance_ ’s crew, except his own, ends with d. 2380, a total of 173 Starfleet officers. Most of them he knew personally, and all of them were once his responsibility.

He arrives at his own picture once more and stops pressing the “next” button, aware of what’s hiding behind it.

The intercom signal chimes to offer reprieve from his somber musings. “ _Bridge to Captain Rinckes. We have arrived at Nedron Eight_.” The lighting automatically increases to normal levels, further prompting the captain to action. He wants to shut off his computer and—whether by accident or on purpose—clicks “next” instead. The screen shows a youthful, blonde commander smiling prettily at the camera.

Commander Melanie Simons – First Officer – b. 2351 d. 2380

Rinckes reaches out and briefly caresses her face. All he feels is the cold tripolymer display beneath his fingertips. Without a change in his blank expression, he rises from his desk and leaves the room.

* * *

“Sorry, guys,” Tony Blue says, hobbling into transporter room 2 in an environmental suit, which consists of relatively tight-fitting, white fabric and an upper-body shell resting on a maroon vest. This bulky shell has an integrated helmet with a sizeable, transparent faceplate, which, in Tony’s view, has been specifically designed to exhibit how queasy you become in zero-G.

The other six away team members, also in their EV suits, are waiting for him on the transporter platform. Their hefty magnetic boots are the only reason they’re not tapping their feet.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m late,” Tony says. “I had a little trouble suiting up.”

Lieutenant Junior Grade Emily Blue scoffs. “He can never dress himself properly without my assistance.”

“You sure it’s airtight?” Chief of Security Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs teases.

“Don’t worry, I carry extra sealant,” Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell says, his cockney accent contributing to his wit. The dark-skinned chief engineer never shies away from an opportunity to poke well-intended fun at his fellow shipmates.

With as much elegance as possible while wearing a space suit and having a limp, Tony steps onto the transporter platform. “We look like a bunch of Michelin men,” he says to the man standing beside him, who turns out to be none other than Lieutenant Junior Grade Surtak, the ship’s ops officer.

The Vulcan arches an eyebrow. “I do not understand the reference, Commander.”

“Who invited him along?” Tony says, facing the others.

“I did, sir,” Lt. Gibbs says with admirable patience, “because you specifically asked me—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony waves him off. Apart from Tony, Emily, Gibbs, Terrell, and Surtak, there are two other crewmembers present on the platform. “You two,” he says to them. “What are your names and ranks?”

“Ensign Ted Barton.”

“Ensign Josh Donahue.”

“Good,” Tony says. “I hereby doubled your chances of survival. You can thank me later.”

The ensigns exchange puzzled looks.

Tony presses one of the colorful buttons on his space suit, opening a comm channel with an audible chirp. “Commander Blue to the bridge. We’re all set here.”

“ _Good. Get underway_ ,” Captain Rinckes replies. “ _Bridge out_.”

“And good luck, valued crewmembers,” Emily adds with a small heap of sarcasm.

“Transporter chief,” Tony says to the ensign manning the transporter controls. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man says.

“Ready ready?” Tony asks.

“Sir…”

“I’m-not-going-to-mess-up-again-and-transport-you-into-the-one-lake-on-the-bloody-planet ready?”

“Sir, that happened only once,” the ensign says sheepishly.

Judging by the ensuing laughter, nobody has forgotten about that incident yet.

“All right,” Tony says, lifting a hand to signal his team to stop laughing, without much success. “Ensign, take us down.” He half-expects the transporter chief to take out his phaser and start gunning down everyone, but by some miracle the chief understands it correctly, and soon the away team dissipates in several blue transporter beams.

* * *

“Commander Blue and his team have been transported to Nedron Eight,” Lt. Baxter says from his station.

Captain Rinckes acknowledges the helmsman’s report with a quick nod. Here on the bridge, the many battles have left their permanent mark as well, but all stations remain operational. On the viewscreen, the Garcon Nebula lies in the distance, stunning in its lilac and blue grandeur. The graveyard of ships created by the Battle of Nedron must still be there, even though the Altonoids have probably stripped the derelicts of all valuable technology and scoured their databases for every usable fragment of information.

“Odd,” Doctor Kingsley says, seated on the second officer’s chair, to the captain’s left, studying his computer terminal’s data—or lack of it. “I’m reading no bio-signs.”

“That’s not surprising,” Lt. Kels says, her matter-of-factly tone belying the bad news she is sharing. “The Garcon Nebula tends to interfere with short and long range sensors. That, combined with the planet’s volatile atmosphere, could hinder communications, so they’re carrying pattern enhancers, which they will have to set up manually. They’ll likely need them to beam back, too.”

“And nobody told me this, because…?”

None of the bridge officers feels inclined to answer right away. Lt. Baxter breaks the silence. “Because reading their bio-signs isn’t going to help much when they’re being mauled by a ten-foot Nedronian cave dweller.”

“Well put, Lieutenant,” Lt. Kels says.

Dr. Kingsley is not amused. “So all we have to do is wait?” he asks. It winds up being a rhetorical question.

* * *

Nedron Eight isn’t your typical holiday destination. The terrain is rugged, volcanic, and  features man-high vegetation stretched out in random contortions, as if drawn by a mirror universe Dr. Seuss. The sky is red and foggy, and the landscape’s aesthetics are dreary in every direction, from lava streams strangling the hillsides to blackened trees branching out like skeletal husks. The most fun you can have here is by taking off your environmental suit. You’d suffocate, burn, and get poisoned—in any particular order.

“God, I miss Risa,” Lt. Cmdr. Terrell quips.

“God, I miss Earth,” Ensign Donahue says.

“These are the coordinates,” Lt. Surtak says clinically, having activated the tricorder he detached from his suit.

“Okay, guys, this is the place,” Tony says. “Stay alert. Report anything of interest.”

They look around, seeing different variations of depressing scenery. The officers spread out, reluctantly so, but Tony sticks with his wife.

“Not a great place for a family picnic, huh?” Emily says.

“We’ve had worse outings,” Tony responds with a slightly forced giggle. Their attempt at lightening the mood is thwarted by the inescapable uneasiness this planet radiates. “Gibbs, any hostile activity yet?” Their in-suit communication systems allow them to talk with each other, even when they’re outside visual range. It also gives their voices a metallic quality, compounding the suit wearer’s sense of isolation.

“No hostiles,” Lt. Gibbs says. “As far as I can tell, there’s no wildlife, and I’m not detecting any life signs other than our own.”

“And yet,” Tony says, “I have the feeling we are being shadowed.” Out of the blue, someone taps him on the arm, causing him to leap into the air higher than you would think possible in such a heavy space suit.

“That would be me, sir,” Gibbs says, sporting a grin almost too wide to fit within his suit’s faceplate. “Nice jump.”

“Just carry on,” Tony grumbles.

After six minutes of their collective fruitless wandering, Emily speaks up. “It’s hard to be sure with this much interference, but there might be a structure over there, made from materials not indigenous to this planet.” Immersed in her tricorder’s readings, she heads onward.

“Team, this is Commander Blue. We might be on to something. Gather at our location.” He and Gibbs follow Emily into a patch of bleak shrubbery. All of a sudden, Emily stumbles and vanishes from sight within milliseconds. Tony’s skin crawls and his stomach tightens. Trailed by Gibbs, he rushes toward her last whereabouts, shouting his wife’s name.

“Everything all right there?” Terrell asks over the comm.

Tony doesn’t reply. He arrives at a precarious hole in the ground, about five feet in diameter, containing nothing but unending darkness, and kneels next to it. “Emily! Are you there?”

“Raising your voice is unnecessary, Commander,” Surtak says. “Our suits’ communication systems relay our messages regardless. Furthermore, we will reach your position in approximately ten seconds.”

Gibbs gives Tony a worried look. Normally, the commander would’ve verbalized his deep-felt sentiments concerning Vulcans, but all he does now is search for any indication of his spouse’s well-being, repeating the same words over and over. “Can you hear me, Emily? Are you there?”

Terrell, Surtak, and the two ensigns join them. “Is Lieutenant Blue all right?” Ensign Barton asks, medical kit in hand. No one has an answer ready.

Surtak hovers his tricorder over the opening. “The shaft does not appear to have been forged by nature. In fact, I have reason to believe we are standing atop a large metal platform, which is covered in soil.”

“Very interesting, Lieutenant,” Barton says politely, “but are you reading any life signs?”

“If there are, I cannot discern them at present.” Captivated by his tricorder’s output, he continues, “This shaft is at least twenty meters deep and opens up into a vast area. I surmise we are on the roof of a very large chamber—a storage room, perhaps.”

Tony straightens up. “I’m going in,” he says. “And you’re all coming with me.”

“No problem,” Gibbs says, snapping to action. “Everyone, activate your magnetic boots and follow me. The first steps are going to be difficult, so watch yourself.”

“May I point out we should not forget our mission,” Surtak says.

“I don’t know, Mr. Surtak,” Terrell says with a teasing smirk. “An artificial shaft in the middle of a deserted planet. If that’s not a clue, then what is?”

“In my opinion, it would be inadvisable to…” Surtak stops mid-sentence upon realizing Tony and Gibbs have already disappeared from sight.

Tony lets his magnetic boots do what their name suggests. Like the security chief predicted, the first few steps into the abyss are tricky, and Tony fights to maintain equilibrium despite gravity tugging at him from unusual directions. Having Gibbs by his side is reassuring, and soon his other colleagues join them.

Together, the six officers tramp the ceiling upside down—an unnerving experience. In the gloom, it’s impossible to determine the size and purpose of this seemingly boundless place. Fog leaking through the hatch, claiming the chamber as its own, doesn’t help visibility either. The SIMs beacons—or flashlights, if you will—strapped to their wrists only shine so far.

Finally, they encounter the nearest wall and start traversing the vertical plane, for all the difference it makes in this disorienting journey. All is quiet apart from their clanging footsteps and Tony’s repeated attempts to contact his wife. “Emily, I know you’re there. We’re coming for you. Don’t worry.” His tone is soft and gentle. Even if his comforting messages won’t reach her, they do strengthen his resolve to rescue her.

* * *

Lieutenant Emily Blue has no idea where she is, her surroundings a starless night. She cannot move. Throbbing pain besets her spine and limbs. She appears to be lying on her back, resting on an uneven surface, but it feels like a vague dream conjured up by a stranger. Despite her best efforts, she cannot remember what circumstances brought her here. She’d panic if she were lucid enough. Someone is calling her name from beyond the haze, but it’s too faint, drowned out by distorted thoughts. Darkness envelopes her, singing her to sleep. She doesn’t have to get up; that won’t do her much good. She might as well lie here and drift back into unconsciousness.

There’s that voice again, calling for her, but it’s distant and slipping away.

* * *

The six officers have to climb over scattered crates and containers from which unidentifiable content has spilled out in threads of grime, forming artificial dunes on a dusty floor. With the team’s magnetic boots, it’s easier to negotiate these obstacles, but it slows their progress nonetheless.

“Assuming Lieutenant Blue fell straight down, she should be nearby,” Lieutenant Surtak says, the only composed person here. This storage room from hell combined with the uncertainty of Emily’s fate is enough to make everybody else skittish.

Clambering through the field of smashed crates, Tony keeps talking to Emily in a soft, detached voice, contributing to the eeriness of the situation.

“I am reading a life sign,” Surtak says, to his colleagues’ relief. “Straight ahead.”

“Ready phasers. It could be a hostile contact,” Lieutenant Gibbs says.

Tony stops his one-sided conversation with Emily and looks straight through the security chief. After a few seconds of indecision, the commander nods his approval and unclips his handphaser from its holster on his EV suit. Emotions may run high, but he cannot afford to lower his guard in enemy territory.

“There she is! We’ve found her!” Ensign Donahue shouts. Six beams of light converge on a white space suit between a pair of broken crates.

“She is alive but wounded,” Surtak says as the group hurries over to her.

Tony is the first to get to her, and he crouches beside his wife. “Emily, I’m here,” he says, but she does not respond.

With the quiet precision of a Starfleet medic, Ensign Ted Barton hunkers down on the other side, opens his medkit, and begins scanning her with his medical tricorder.

“Wake up, Emily. You’re safe now,” Tony says in the same calm tone he has been using for the past few minutes.

“Commander,” Barton says after finishing his quick examination. “Sir!”

“Yes, Ensign?”

“The crates and her suit have broken her fall for the most part. She has sustained minor injuries to her head, limbs, and spine, but nothing life-threatening. She’s going to be all right.”

“That’s good to hear,” Tony says, voicing everybody’s thoughts.

“I could start treatment here, but I’d prefer to take her to sickbay.”

Lieutenant Commander Terrell chimes in. “We’ll have to set up the pattern enhancers if we want to beam her to the _Achilles_.”

“What’s going on?” Emily says, much to everyone’s surprise. Tony immediately embraces her. Not a very bright idea, considering her aches and bruises, so he backs down and rests her in his arms instead. “What did I miss?” she asks drowsily.

“Nothing really,” Tony says, unable to suppress a smile. “You just took a shortcut. We had to take the long way round.”

“Oh,” she says. The simplicity of her reply makes Tony chuckle.

“I hate to break up the tender moment,” Gibbs says, “but we have to keep moving. Ensign Barton, is Emily’s condition stable?”

“It is, sir.”

“Commander Blue, don’t get me wrong, but the sooner we complete our assignment, the better. Ensign Barton can stay with her, and we will pick them up on our way back.”

Tony knows Gibbs is right. With the team’s medic tending to Emily’s wounds, it’s time for them to move on. “I understand, Lieutenant,” he says, still cradling his wife. “You proceed with the mission; I think I’ll stay too.” Emily tries to sit up, but her struggles yield only a pained grimace. “Careful, don’t move. I’m here with you.”

“Sir, I understand why you’d rather stay,” Gibbs says as he crouches down and rests his hand on Tony’s shoulder, coaxing the commander to snap out of his overprotective state. “Emily’s in good hands. We’ll come back for them once we’re done.” He scoots closer. “Sir, you have more experience with the Altonoids than any of us do, and I don’t have to remind you of the importance of this mission.”

The security chief’s reasoning may be solid, but Tony remains unconvinced.

“It’s okay, Tony. I’ll be fine,” Emily says with a masterful combination of stubbornness and sweetness that never fails to bypass his defenses. “I’m usually the one looking after you, remember?”

“It’s your call, Commander,” Gibbs says.

Tony lets out an exaggerated breath. “Oh, all right. Don’t you all get all puppy-eyed on me. Just give me a sec.”

“No problem,” Gibbs says, and he stands up to join the others.

Tony turns to his wife. “Okay, you stay here and be nice to Ensign Barton.”

“I’ll do my best,” Emily says in a mock-serious tone.

“And you, Ensign,” Tony says. “Ted, take good care of her.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Or else I’ll drop you off at the nearest Altonoid melee weapon party.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gift-wrapped.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We understand each other.”

“Commander, we need to get going,” Gibbs says. The other three members of the away team have already become contours in the chamber’s mist.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Tony says to Barton and Emily.

Emily smiles. “We won’t.” And with that, Tony rises to his feet and accompanies Gibbs into the unknown.

* * *

“We’ve reached an exit,” Ensign Donahue says. Tony, Terrell, Gibbs, and Surtak convene at his location and spot a vast metal door, camouflaged in the murk. They’ve been trudging for a while now, navigating a maze of darkness and broken crates, scouring the walls for a way out. Tony for one is relieved, although what lies hidden behind the door probably won’t justify that feeling.

“It is locked,” Surtak says.

Nobody knows how to respond, except for maybe a concealed “duh,” given the fact that this massive door looks like it can only be opened with a volley of quantum torpedoes.

“That’s where I come in,” Terrell says, ever the optimist. The others take a respectful step back and let the British chief engineer do what he does best: fixing stuff. With a modicum of effort and through the magic of a jerry-rigged energy cell, Terrell persuades the big door to open, revealing a twisted corridor as hazy and endless as the storage room. A faraway metal screech, amplified by the hopefully empty hallway, echoes its welcome.

“Keep your phasers ready,” Gibbs says with a relatable hint of peril.

Surtak, however, is calm as always. “It is doubtful we will encounter living beings beyond this doorway.” Unlike his colleagues, he hasn’t armed himself yet. Fearlessly, the Vulcan crosses the threshold with his tricorder held out in front of him, as if he’s taking a quiet stroll in a friend’s backyard and not entering a nightmarish corridor. The other officers have no choice but to follow.

Tony cannot decide whether he finds Surtak’s approach brave or careless—stoic would probably be the correct term.

“I believe I have collected sufficient data to confirm we are aboard a crashed _Attack_ -class Altonoid vessel,” Surtak says, causing a fit of surprised mutterings among the other members of the away team. “I suggest we head over to the computer core control room, where we can attempt to access the main computer.”

“I’m impressed, Lieutenant,” Gibbs says. The others agree in silence.

Flanked by Gibbs and Terrell, Surtak takes point. Tony and Donahue bring up the rear. Light beams emanating from their SIMs beacons hit either the bulkheads or the enclosing walls of fog. The big cargo bay door has already disappeared in the mist. It’s as if this corridor has no beginning or end. It makes Tony miss the safety of the _Achilles_. It makes him miss his wife. “Emily, can you hear us?” No reply.

“Out of range, Commander,” Terrell says. “The door probably closed behind us, too.”

Just as Tony concludes this couldn’t get much spookier, they encounter a molding Altonoid corpse lying casually on the floor. Their beacons are drawn to it, and they stop and stare for a while. Mummified by the planet’s unforgiving atmosphere, its mouth retracted in a soundless scream, it has become hideous and grotesque.

“He is dead,” Surtak says.

Tony sinks his upper teeth into his lower lip to keep from laughing and asks, “Sure you don’t want to check his pulse?”

“Yeah,” Terrell says with an ear-to-ear grin. “I mean, if there’s anything we can do for him, we shouldn’t hesitate.”

“That’s Starfleet for you. Always here to help,” Gibbs says with an equally broad smile.

“I find these so-called jokes at the expense of a deceased individual distasteful,” Surtak says. “According to my readings, the Altonoid has been dead for two years, providing us a reliable indication of when this vessel crashed.”

“Such a buzzkill,” Tony mumbles to himself before addressing his team. “Show’s over. Let’s get going. And Surtak, be sure to warn us when you encounter any _living_ Altonoids.”

“I will, sir,” Surtak says as he continues into the darkness. The others go with him, leaving the Altonoid to rest in peace.

* * *

The bridge crew of the _Achilles_ has been trying to ascertain the away team’s status, but they have very little to go on. That goes double for the chief medical officer, Doctor Kingsley. “I don’t like to be kept out of the loop like this. We haven’t heard anything from them since the mission began.”

“No news could be good news, Doctor,” Lieutenant Commander Crow says, aiming to silence the doctor. He has been grouching ever since he arrived on the bridge.

“Really? That’s all you have to offer?” Kingsley stands up to make room for his wild gestures. “Right this instant, they could be celebrating the unearthing of an artifact that unravels the mysteries of the universe, or they could be stuck in some native monster’s digestive tract.”

“Our most recent scans of the surface prove there are no creatures in their vicinity,” Lieutenant Kels says, helping Crow in her brave but futile quest to shut the doctor up.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Kingsley says. “Exactly how accurate are the sensors when it comes to scanning a planet with so much natural interference?”

Kels deflects his probing question. “I’m sure Commander Blue has everything under control.”

“I may certainly hope so.”

“Sir, are you suggesting the away team isn’t capable of performing its duties?”

Kingsley lifts his palms. “I’m not suggesting anything of the kind.” He decides to procure the captain’s support. “Captain, what do you think? Are my worries justified?” That last question is spoken as if there’s only one possible answer.

However, Captain Rinckes doesn’t appear to be following the conversation, nor does he show any willingness to participate. He’s watching the viewscreen, studying it. The view of Nedron Eight with the impressive Garcon Nebula as its backdrop hasn’t changed in the past half-hour. Yet, a glimmer of alarm in the captain’s gaze brings the entire argument to a halt.

“Something’s off,” the captain grumbles. “We’re not alone. Scan the system without revealing our position. Use low-frequency scan pulses.”

The crew complies straightaway. “Nothing out of the ordinary on sensors,” Kels says. “I could divert a smidgeon of extra power to the sensor arrays.”

“Don’t. Just stay alert,” Rinckes says without breaking off his concentrated stare.

“Even if there’s someone out there, they won’t detect us,” Crow says in another attempt to ease the tension. “Our cloaking device is running at full efficiency.”

“I know,” Rinckes says in a manner that doesn’t soothe anyone’s nerves.

An opening comm channel announces itself. Lieutenant Baxter sighs in relief. “Sir, it’s the away team,” he says. “Relaying communication to the bridge.”

“Finally,” Kingsley says, falling back into his chair.

* * *

Tony, Terrell, Gibbs, Surtak, and Donahue are standing in a modestly sized room that’s equipped with wall-mounted computer interfaces gathering dust in serene inactivity. Other than that, it’s remarkably empty, save for the six upright pattern enhancers that have been strategically placed and calibrated to perfection. Those enhancers cast a shimmery blue light against the bulkheads, giving the computer room the aspect of an aquarium.

“ _What’s your status?_ ” they hear their captain say.

“We have found the wreckage of a crashed _Attack_ -class Altonoid vessel,” Tony replies, “the UEA _Atlunte_. We’re currently in the secondary computer core room. Commander Terrell is busting his hump to get the main computer up and running.” Terrell quickly flashes him a smile while typing commands into a badly lit wall panel. “He’s making excellent progress.”

As if on cue, all interfaces switch on in quick succession, their green hues clashing with the pattern enhancers’ blue, rippling light.

“Nice work, Jon,” Gibbs says as he gives the chief engineer a friendly knock on the helmet. “Let’s figure out what this rusty old flea trap can tell us.”

“If we upload its database to the _Achilles_ ,” Surtak says, “it will give us the opportunity to review all files without the delay of an on-site selection.”

“Feasible and wise, Mr. Surtak,” Terrell says.

“ _This is good news_ ,” Rinckes says in a tone implying the opposite. “ _Set up an independent uplink in coordination with Lieutenant Baxter and send us the data_.”

“You’ll find the information more than useful, Captain,” Terrell says, almost sounding giddy. Tony can’t help but admire the chief engineer’s unwavering enthusiasm. “I’m receiving Baxter’s signal. Uploading database… now.” The blue lights on top of the six enhancers begin to flash in unison, signaling the transfer has begun.

* * *

A status bar on Baxter’s helm station indicates a steady stream of valuable intel is being downloaded fast. Captain Rinckes keeps track of its progress from his seat in the center of the bridge by shooting glances over the helmsman’s shoulder.

“What’s the condition of the away team, Commander?” Doctor Kingsley asks, no doubt glad to be able to ask this question at last. “Everybody all right?”

“ _Emily was the first to discover the wreckage, but she got wounded in the process_ ,” Tony says. That’s not the end of his story, but Lieutenant Baxter has to cut it short.

“Sir, I’m receiving a distress call.”

“A distress call?” Rinckes spares his helmsman a look. “From where?”

Baxter scowls at his controls, as if they’re somehow to blame. “From the location of the away team!”

Rinckes’ narrow eyes grow wide, and he rises from his seat.

“ _Captain_ ,” Terrell says, higher pitched than normal. “ _It’s the Atlunte. Its main computer must have detected the ability to send out subspace signals. It has—_ ”

“—sent out a distress call,” Rinckes grunts. “Is the database upload complete?”

“ _Yes, sir_. _Shutting down main computer._ ”

“ _We’re packing up, Captain_ ,” Tony adds.

The captain resumes his piercing stare directed at the viewscreen. During Kingsley’s complaining, he picked up on the subliminal visual imperfections of at least one cloaking device, whether through instinct or experience. Far off in the distance, validating his suspicions, two Altonoid battlecruisers uncloak, two enormous floating caskets offsetting the Garcon Nebula’s beauty. They’re heading straight for the _Achilles._

“Two _Massal_ -class vessels closing in,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says. “But we’re cloaked. We’re invisible to them, right?”

“They know exactly where we are,” the captain says with paradoxical calmness, born of professionalism. “Commander Blue, prepare your team for transport. We’re leaving.”

“ _Sir_.” The sudden anguish in Tony’s voice is unsettling. “ _We had to leave Lieutenant Blue and Ensign Barton behind in the cargo bay. We need at least ten minutes to reach them and use the enhancers to beam them to_ …” Tony can’t finish his sentence. It’s as if he sees what Rinckes is seeing: two _Massal_ -class battleships with superior firepower on a merciless intercept course.

They don’t have ten minutes.


	7. Chapter VI

“I recommend evasive maneuvers,” Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow says from her tactical station.

Captain Stephan Rinckes, his feet planted on the floor in the center of the bridge, stares at the two approaching Altonoid warships. The distress call sent out by the wreckage buried under the planet’s surface must have transmitted the _Achilles_ ’ location. He fears that, this up close and personal, their cloak won’t fool the Altonoids. “Baxter, break orbit.”

“ _Captain, you’ve got to let me get Emily_ ,” Commander Tony Blue says, disrupting the captain’s  focus. The _Achilles_ is breaking orbit and the Altonoids seem to be adjusting their course accordingly. “ _I’ll have the rest of the away team ready for beamup. I’ll_ —”

“Commander, this is not the time.” Rinckes straightens his uniform jacket. “Baxter, set heading 014 mark 182, quarter impulse. Crow, keep tabs on those Altonoids.”

The obligatory “aye sirs” are drowned out by Tony’s pleading. “… _to get them here, but I can do it. I know it’s asking a lot, but the_ Achilles _is strong enough to withstand a few_ —”

“Tony, not now!” Rinckes snaps. The abrupt silence on the other end of the comm channel is deafening. The bridge crewmembers pause their work briefly, trying and failing to appear unruffled by this outburst. Even Doctor Kingsley refrains from commenting, although the look he gives his captain speaks volumes. Their opinions of him be damned; ensuring the safety of the ship takes precedence, no matter what.

“Captain,” Erin Crow says, urgency tarnishing her regular air of detachment. “The Altonoids have once again adjusted their course to match ours.”

Rinckes meets her gaze, realizing the implication of what she has said. “Red alert! Drop cloak and raise shields! All hands to battle stations!”

Red alert panels flash to life and start blinking as the warning claxon primes the crew for battle.

* * *

In the computer room of the crashed Altonoid vessel, the away team’s environmental suits keep at bay the unbreathable air, which is heavy with gloom and tension. Lieutenant Commander Terrell, assisted by Ensign Donahue, is checking the six upright pattern enhancers to ensure the _Achilles_ can beam him and his squad mates up. The security chief, Lieutenant Gibbs, is casting worried looks at Tony, who’s pacing back and forth while fruitlessly attempting to re-establish communication with the bridge. Lieutenant Surtak is quietly awaiting what’s to come.

“Commander Blue to _Achilles_.” Despite his suit’s internal climate control, sweat pools on Tony’s forehead and smudges his faceplate. “Dammit, Captain! What the bloody hell is going on up there?” He kicks a nearby computer terminal in frustration—a rather pointless thing to do, especially while wearing an EV suit. He huffs and faces the security chief. “I’m going back for them.”

“I’m coming with you,” Gibbs says in a reassuring tone. “But we’ll need these enhancers. Terrell, Surtak, and Donahue must be beamed to the ship first.”

“I’ll go ahead,” Tony says. “Catch up with me once you’re done here. We have to hurry.” He is about to start toward the exit when the _Achilles_ contacts them.

“Achilles _to the away team._ ” It’s difficult to hear over the din of ship-to-ship combat, but Tony can make out it’s the captain. After another audible explosion, Rinckes addresses his bridge crew first. “ _Evasive maneuver Delta. Keep lining up the pulse phaser cannons. Don’t worry about overheating them. Just keep 'em firing. Commander Blue, are you still in the computer room?_ ”

“Affirmative. Terrell, Surtak, and Donahue are ready for beamup. Gibbs and I will proceed to the cargo bay and retrieve—”

“ _Like hell you are. We’ll open up an EM window in our shields to beam you up, and then we’re out of here. I know this means leaving Lieutenant Blue and Ensign Barton behind, but we cannot hold position. You’ve seen the increased activity in this region. Enemy reinforcements are not in short supply._ ”

Tony wants to protest, but the captain has resumed yelling orders at his bridge crew. Dizzy in spite of the rigidity of his suit, he looks at his four colleagues, who mirror his helplessness. No, this cannot be the end of it. “Captain,” he says. Rinckes does not respond. “Captain!”

“Regrettable as they are,” Surtak says coolly, “our orders are clear, Commander.”

“Yes, they are.” Tony curls his upper lip into a sneer. “I’m going anyway. Jeremy, are you with me on this one?”

Before Gibbs can react, Rinckes addresses them again, sounding unperturbed by Tony’s disobedience. “ _What do you think you’re doing, Commander_?” It’s as if he’d been expecting to have to say this. “ _We’re beaming you up._ ” A thunderclap of enemy fire rumbles the bridge in the background. “ _—run out of time._ ”

“Captain!” Tony shouts. “Emily’s trapped in the cargo bay. There must be something we can do!”

“ _No, Commander, there isn’t. Baxter, initiate transport._ ”

“Wait! Please!” The jumbled noise of a bridge under attack has disappeared. The comm channel is closed. Shoulders sagged in defeat, Tony stands there, giving Gibbs a look he won’t soon forget—a look of unfiltered anguish.

As the computer room dissolves to be replaced by a shaking transporter room, Tony balls his hands into fists.

* * *

With a series of violent sparks, the second officer’s console gives up altogether and goes dark, providing further ammunition for Doctor Kingsley’s disgruntled mutterings, which Captain Rinckes blocks out. The bridge is rocking violently, and its crew has to put in extra effort to keep from being torn from their posts. Somehow, Rinckes stays on his feet, issuing orders with levelheaded competence. He knows they cannot afford to overstay their welcome. With no backup or repair facilities to fall back on, every enemy phaser strike and torpedo impact carries the risk of crippling the _Achilles_ , stranding her indefinitely, condemning those aboard to die in the vacuum of space.

“Shields down to 53 percent,” Ensign Robert Dolphin, manning the engineering station, reports. “I’m detecting minor hull breaches on the upper decks. Main power is draining. Switching to auxiliary power.”

“What about the away team?” Rinckes asks as a nearby EPS conduit ruptures and starts billowing smoke.

Lieutenant Ernest Baxter accesses the corresponding data on his console. “Blue, Terrell, Gibbs, Surtak, and Donahue are now on board.”

“As soon as there’s an opening, get us out of here. Maximum warp.”

Baxter’s fingers race the controls he mastered years ago. “I believe I’ve found one.” The two large Altonoid vessels roll out of view by virtue of his piloting skills.

Blood rushes to the captain’s limbs, as if he is fighting the enemy in person. If only. “Crow, fire dorsal torpedo cannons, as many as you can without blowing ourselves to kingdom come. Let’s make sure they won’t follow us.”

* * *

Outside, the _Achilles_ lets loose with her impressive dorsal weaponry, hitting the warships dead-on. The grid of torpedo launchers atop the _Achilles_ launch smaller photon torpedoes than normal launchers do, but their greater numbers render them lethal nonetheless. The majority of these packets of intense and destructive energy disperse in the Altonoids’ shields and wear out their defensive capabilities, allowing others to sneak through and wreak havoc.

However, the attack serves primarily as a distraction for the giant _Massal_ -class vessels; it’s nothing they can’t shrug off. The vehement Altonoids respond with enough phaser fire and torpedo volleys to bid the _Achilles_ a scorching farewell. Then, the lone Federation vessel engages her warp engines and propels herself out of the area.

* * *

The bridge rattles as the ship accelerates, settling under duress after having taken yet another beating. “Are they chasing us?” Rinckes asks.

“Negative, sir,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says.

Rinckes sits down in his chair. “Re-engage cloaking device and take us to yellow alert. Baxter, navigate us to a safer destination and make our flight path as erratic as you deem fit. Ensign Dolphin, damage report.” The alert indicators go from red to yellow, but because the _Achilles_ is travelling under cloak, the standard lighting doesn’t come on, masking the additional damage the Altonoids inflicted in their brief but brutal assault.

“Auxiliary power is holding,” Ensign Dolphin says. “Many of our dorsal torpedo launchers are overheated. In fact, all weapons require an extensive cooling-down period. Our cloaking device is functioning but not at optimum efficiency. Shields were down to 38 percent before we switched them off. Decks 3 to 5 have suffered hull breaches, but emergency force fields are…” The ensign doesn’t finish his sentence, because he finds himself upstaged by the hum of an active transporter beam.

* * *

Commander Tony Blue materializes in front of the engineering station and hands his EV suit’s helmet over to Ensign Dolphin, who is nothing short of perplexed. The bridge goes dead quiet, save for the occasional bleeps and hisses of respectively functioning and broken equipment.

Tony has to reach from deep within his psyche to summon the inner calm to stay articulate. “We have to go back.”

Captain Rinckes heaves a troubled sigh. “Commander…”

“We have to go back,” Tony repeats, but this time the sentence is a plea directed at the entire bridge crew.

Lieutenants Gibbs and Surtak, also in their EV suits sans helmet, step out of the turbolift and remain in the back of the bridge to watch the situation unfold.

Tony eyes his crewmates one by one, hoping to find allies for his cause.

“Ensign Dolphin was sharing his detailed damage report,” Rinckes says. “With our weapons overheated and our cloaking device in need of repair, we’re in no condition—”

“We can do it, sir,” Tony says, grasping at straws. “The _Achilles_ is a fine ship. We can head back, stall the Altonoids for a few minutes, and retrieve Emily and Barton. Right, guys?”

The silence is heartrending.

Tony takes a couple of steps toward the captain. In his current state, this could be perceived as threatening, unintentional as it may be. It forces the bridge crew to stop ignoring his presence, however.

This includes Doctor Kingsley, who can no longer be a passive spectator. “What you’re asking… It cannot happen. I’m so sorry.”

“Come on, Doctor,” Tony says, shambling toward the center of the bridge. “We’re talking about Emily. _Emily_.” A bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Despite his struggle to stay poised, a few tears fight their way to the surface. “Please, Captain.”

“Harsh as it may be,” Rinckes says, tensing up as his first officer closes in, “you willingly signed up for this mission. So did your wife. She knew the risks.”

“Sir, not like this.” Tony ceases his intimidating approach. His throat is sore from suppressing despair, and he wonders how long he can keep from breaking down. The viewscreen shows their escape from the Nedron system, how they’re flying away from Emily at many times the speed of light. “Lieutenant Baxter.” He clears his throat and wipes his tears. “Turn the ship around and set course for Nedron Eight.”

Baxter freezes up, awaiting the captain’s response.

“Belay that!” Rinckes says, which gains him his first officer’s renewed attention.

“We’re talking about Emily,” Tony says.

Rinckes grits his teeth. “You don’t have to remind me, Commander.”

Dr. Kingsley makes a valiant effort to represent the voice of reason. “Tony, we have quite possibly found the very answers we’ve been pursuing these past four years. We can’t afford to lose that in a last-ditch battle for the lives of two crewmembers. A botched rescue attempt could kill us all _and_ prevent the valuable intel we’ve found from ever reaching the Federation. Ted and Emily wouldn’t want that. Am I… making sense to you?”

“Lieutenant Baxter,” Tony says as tears reemerge. “Ernest. I know it’s asking too much, but… please turn the ship around.”

Baxter fixes his gaze on his helm station, even if it were solely because it wounds him to see Tony like this.

Rinckes springs up from his seat. “You’re out of line, Commander.”

Tony bites his lip and faces his captain. His mind is racing, his heart burning to a cinder. He instills his voice with every scrap of volume he can muster, sounding feeble regardless. “Is there anyone who’ll help me? Anyone who thinks we shouldn’t desert our colleagues?”

“This has gone far enough,” Rinckes says, his composure belied by the faint cording of his neck muscles.

Dr. Kingsley stands up too, concerned and ready to intervene. “Captain, he’s upset. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“I know damn well what I’m saying,” Tony yells, causing one of his tears to tremble loose and fall to the floor. “I’m asking if anyone here has the gumption to help liberate our friends from certain death. The Altonoids don’t take prisoners, they shoot on sight! Ted and Emily don’t have a prayer of surviving.” Defying a wave of tiredness, he continues, “So ask yourselves what _you_ would want if you were down there, in a dark cargo bay of a wrecked enemy vessel soon to be swarming with Altonoids. Would you like to be abandoned to your fate? Ask yourselves that!” He is on the verge of hyperventilating, and his aching ribs compete for dominance with the painful lump he’s trying to swallow.

“The commander has a point,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says, surprising everyone, including herself, and causing the bridge crew to murmur.

Lieutenant Kels, who has spent the entire debate conveying pity with her sapphire eyes, finally gathers the courage to say, “We should at least consider the idea.”

“Quiet! All of you,” Rinckes bellows, silencing the brewing commotion. “Commander Blue,” he continues, speaking with indisputable clarity. “This has gone too far. I must ask you to leave the bridge at once. I am deeply sorry for your loss, but as Doctor Kingsley explained, I cannot condone a rescue mission, not in our current shape, not with this much at stake.”

“We can do this,” Tony says, his confidence no doubt contrasting with his runny nose and puffy face. “We can pull this off.” Not alone in this belief, he senses how his colleagues are starting to change their mind, how they might be willing to put their lives on the line once more to save two friends in need.

The moment does not last. “I’m not going to ask you again,” the captain says in a tone that effectively subverts the frail enthusiasm that was building up. No one offers any further opposition.

Tony is defeated. There is nothing he can do. It is over.

With the lucidity one obtains upon waking from a bad dream, it dawns on him there is indeed one option left. Attached to his suit, his handphaser demands to be used. If the captain cannot be persuaded by appealing to his humanity…

As if controlled by an external power, he slowly reaches for the phaser, even when his common sense shouts that drawing a weapon against his superior is a heinous offense. Unfortunately, its shouting isn’t anywhere near loud enough to drown out the crying of his heart—a heart refusing to live without Emily.

Rinckes’ shaking his head in disbelief barely registers with Tony as his gloved fingertips tap the phaser’s grip. It would take half a second to remove it from its holster and aim it at his captain. It’s probably still on the stun setting, and that’s okay. He’d only have to incapacitate him, find out which crewmembers will support him, and… Lieutenant Gibbs has grabbed a phaser of his own and he aims it at Tony from the back of the bridge, prepared to defend his captain. With a wagging index finger, Rinckes signals him to stand down, and the security chief lowers his phaser after a few seconds of indecision. The captain has guts, that’s for sure.

“So my first officer is going to shoot me?”

Tears and sweat further reduce Tony’s vision to a blur. Only now does he notice he has actually grabbed his handphaser and he is pointing it at the captain, who appears fearless, convinced that the young commander won’t push the trigger button. _Well he’s in for a shock._ But then, Tony becomes aware of Dr. Kingsley, standing at the edge of his despair-induced tunnel vision, and sees him lower his head and close his eyes, having lost faith in the commander, resigning to bitter disappointment instead.

It’s enough to bring Tony back to the real world. “What the hell am I doing?”

“You’re threatening your captain with a phaser,” Rinckes explains sternly.

A beat of hesitation. Nobody so much as breathes.

“Put down the phaser, Tony.”

Tony looks around, sees his colleagues, his friends, and realizes he is making a fool of himself. Gradually, he allows the phaser—his last hope of saving Emily—to slip from his grasp. It hits the carpet with a thud, and the commander collects whatever strength is left in him to hurry past the captain, past the doctor, past Gibbs, and into the turbolift, where he collapses on the floor just before the doors shield him from his colleagues’ prying eyes. As he begins to weep, the doors open once more, and Dr. Kingsley rushes in to kneel beside him. The doctor wraps an arm around his shoulder and starts expressing words of consolation that become increasingly distant like the planet that has ensnared Emily.

* * *

While the turbolift carries Tony and the doctor away, the bridge crew is left to ponder the jarring events that took place in rapid succession.

Captain Rinckes notes his subordinates are avoiding his gaze. Stunned beyond measure, nobody has the nerve to speak up. And yet, by definition they all do, in unison, weighing and judging his actions. He has made the correct choice, hasn’t he? This is what’s required of him, isn’t it? No, there is not a shred of doubt within him. “You have the bridge, Crow,” he says in a flat monotone as he walks off without acknowledging the emotions haunting them.

Forcing himself to keep his gait steady and decisive, he marches into his ready room and heads for the window. The doors close behind him and offer him the mercy of cutting him off from the bridge. Resting his forehead in the crook of his arm, he leans against the cold viewport and finds little comfort in the familiar streaks of stardust grazing the hull in endless tedium.

It doesn’t take long before he detects a dissonant image floating among the iridescent stripes indicative of warp travel. It’s the reflection of his desktop monitor, which is portraying the same image it did when he neglected to switch it off.

Separated by inches of transparent aluminum and an arm’s length of optical illusion, Commander Melanie Simons smiles at him, forever out of reach.

* * *

  **Behind enemy lines, USS _Achilles_ – June 18, 2386 – Stardate 63461.6**

_I should have done this sooner._ Lieutenant Ernest Baxter makes his way through the corridors and chastises himself for not being a better friend. Not knowing what to say is a poor excuse, but it truly is the leading motive for his steering clear of the grief-stricken commander. Shipmates passing by have weathered looks on their faces, matching the hallways’ battle-worn appearance. He has grown accustomed to both.

Posted outside Commander Blue’s quarters, Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs stands motionless and upright like a sculpture guarding a tomb. He could’ve delegated this simple task to any member of his staff, yet the security chief insists on being here whenever his schedule permits. He raises his palms as Baxter approaches. “The commander doesn’t wish to see anyone.”

“I’m here on captain’s orders,” Baxter says. “Besides, I think Tony could use the company. Have you read the message the Altonoids sent out on all channels? Those scumbags had the gall to brag about executing Ensign Barton and Emily.”

A fleeting tinge of sadness crosses Gibbs’ features. “I read it.” He sizes up the chief helmsman. “So, you’re here to drag him upstairs?”

“Pretty much.”

“Go easy on him.” The security chief presses the comm panel on the bulkhead. “Commander, Lieutenant Baxter is here to talk with you.” No reply. Gibbs waits half a minute before pressing the panel again. “Commander, I’m opening the door for him.” He types in his security code and the doors slide open.

Before Baxter can enter, Gibbs blocks his path, chest puffed out, standing so close that his greater height prevents him from making eye contact. “Good luck, Lieutenant. I’m here if you need anything.”

Baxter hesitates. “Um… Thanks.” The security officer steps aside to let him walk into the XO’s quarters.

Once inside, the air is frigid and a shroud of darkness obscures the damage the many battles have caused even here. The last run-in with the Altonoids deepened the _Achilles_ ’ hidden scars. There’s a shadow seated by the window, peering through torn sheer curtains, observing the stardust stripes, which cast dappling light on a floor strewn with portraits and cups, vases and books.

By now, Tony must be aware of the helmsman’s presence, but he doesn’t react to Baxter pulling up a chair to join him. The first officer sits stooped forward, his hands groping his knees, his eyes unfocused, his hair a tangle.

“You’ve read the Altonoids’ message,” Baxter concludes.

Tony nods weakly.

“They’re bastards,” Baxter says. “Wait until they discover how much info we gathered on our recon mission. It’ll tell us why and how they managed to recruit the S’Prenn for their needs.”

Tony remains unaffected.

“This is a huge find. It could flip the entire war around.”

The commander doesn’t bother to reply and keeps studying the view.

“Emily died a hero, Tony,” Baxter says, telling it as it is, entwining pride and grief. “A real hero. She gave her life to save countless others. None of us will ever forget the price she and Ensign Barton paid in the name of Starfleet.”

“Isn’t that wonderful?” Tony says at last, his voice a loud whisper. “She’s a hero. A bloody hero. Isn’t that superb?” He glares at the chief helmsman while the inner strength he must have kept pent up for the last three days returns in full force. “We could’ve procured the information _and_ saved her life. She died a hero, yes, but she didn’t have to die in the first place.”

Baxter doesn’t have an answer ready. He stares into Tony’s sunken eyes, white-red in a ghostly mask.

Tony’s jaw shivers as he tries to stay coherent. “I failed her. She’s dead, Ernest. Can you believe it? Gone. Forever. I will never see her again. Well hurray for the Federation, but I can’t say I give a damn. Nothing could ever replace her.”

Baxter takes a deep breath. “Realistically speaking, what could you have done differently? You gave it your all. Heck, that’s putting it mildly; you pulled a phaser on the captain.”

“Not my smartest move.”

“But a bold one. You remember my reaction when you asked me to go back? I didn’t have the courage.”

Tony takes a moment to ruminate on this. Despite the darkness, his stare softens visibly as he replies, “I do not blame you. You were obeying the captain.”

“Following the regs to the letter isn’t what’s going to get the job done. Our cloaking device is a perfect example of this. Whichever way you put it, using the device the Klingons gave us is a flagrant violation of the Treaty of Algeron. We are doing everything in our power to uncover the S’Prenn’s motives and outwit the Altonoids.”

Tony must be aware of where this is heading; he keeps listening nonetheless.

“Emily and Barton’s sacrifice is part of that equation,” Baxter says, careful not to overplay his hand. “And it sucks, but that’s the way it will go down in the history books. Somehow, and it needn’t be today… but somehow, you’re going to have to come to terms with this.”

“It sounds great in theory, but my pain is far from theoretical. How do I…?”

Fearful as Baxter had been for not knowing what to say, it’s clear to him now. “You’re an asset to this crew. Otherwise, the captain wouldn’t have beamed you back against your will, in essence saving your life. That’s got to be worth something.”

Tony shakes his head.

“If you weren’t valuable, if you weren’t capable of making a difference, he would’ve left you there.”

“Not a terrible alternative,” Tony says with a glimmer of humor that signals Baxter is on the right track.

“Man…” Baxter slumps back in his seat. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now. Please don’t forget there are still people who believe in you, who’d risk their lives for you without a second thought.”

Tony scoffs. “After the stunt I pulled on the bridge? A first officer my age is unprecedented. I always managed to be professional enough to compensate for that ‘handicap.’ But when I grabbed that phaser and aimed it at the captain… I lost my credibility.”

“You may think so.” Baxter leans in and lowers his voice. “Not everyone agrees. If you hadn’t let go of that phaser, you might’ve been our new captain.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. You took a gamble, made choices. You can’t change what happened. You can only determine what you do next. Easy for me to say, I know, but it’s the only way you’ll get through this.” He lets his utterances of impromptu wisdom linger for a while, hoping they’ll benefit his friend somehow. “Are you ready to talk with the captain? Because that is inevitable anyhow.”

Tony spends a handful of seconds in contemplation. “I don’t think I want to.”

Baxter straightens up. “I’ll be honest with you, Tony. He really needs to talk to you. Better yet, he’s waiting for you as we speak. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to test his patience a little. Your well-being is of greater importance, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You might as well get it over with. I’ll ask Gibbs to take you to him, okay?”

With considerable reluctance, Tony rises to his feet and follows the chief helmsman out of the disheveled quarters he has spent the past couple of days in. Lieutenant Gibbs sends the commander right back in with the directive to comb his hair and tidy his uniform, lest he won’t take him anywhere.

* * *

The bridge lighting is dimmed too, because the _Achilles_ is cloaked and running in silent mode to avoid detection. As soon as the turbolift opens to reveal Lieutenant Gibbs and Commander Blue, the bridge crew goes silent as well.

“This way, Commander,” Gibbs says, escorting Tony to the captain’s ready room.

While trailing the chief of security, Tony senses the crew is watching him. He doesn’t return the favor. He cannot bear to see their faces, which leaves him to guess how they regard him—with anger, disappointment, pity?

Gibbs halts near the entrance and gives him a reassuring smile. Tony enters the ready room, where Captain Rinckes sits at his desk and Doctor Kingsley stands beside him, both wearing grim expressions. Tony takes a seat and waits for the other shoe to drop. The captain glowers at him, eyes narrowed, resembling a bird of prey stalking a mouse.

“How are you feeling, Tony?” Kingsley starts the conversation with a healthy dose of sympathy.

Tony doesn’t respond. What is there to say he hasn’t told Kingsley yet during the doctor’s well-intended but ill-fated attempts at grief counseling?

“We offer you our sincere condolences,” Kingsley says, which became the hollowest of phrases soon after Tony was widowed. “Tell me, do you understand why the captain did what he did?”

With effort, Tony scrounges together a reply. “I understand.” Kingsley wants to build on that, but the young commander continues, “I understand the tactical and strategic arguments. What I don’t understand is the lack of heart involved.”

This hardens the captain’s stare even further.

“We all have hearts, Commander. I checked personally,” Kingsley says, not grinning at his own joke. “Nobody liked abandoning two crewmembers. Ted was a good medic, and Emily…” He presses his lips together and starts over. “Our primary goal, the sole reason we’re out here, is to find out why the S’Prenn have changed sides. You haven’t forgotten this, have you?”

Tony bites his tongue in lieu of saying something impertinent.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Kingsley summons a confident smirk. “Emily’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

This prompts the captain to speak up at long last, albeit in an uninflected tone. “The data we’ve gathered explains why the S’Prenn have joined Altonoid forces.”

“We’re hurrying back to Klingon space,” Kingsley says with a level of excitement greatly contrasting with the other two officers’ shortage of it. “We decided to tell you in person before we make an official announcement.”

“And to talk about the incident on the bridge,” Rinckes adds.

“Yes,” Kingsley says, grimacing at the interruption. “But I think Tony here wants to know about the S’Prenn. Right?”

“Sure,” Tony says. Last week, the tiniest morsel of intel on the S’Prenn would’ve made him ecstatic, but now… it seems so trivial.

“As it turns out, the consequences of the Station A-12 Debacle are more extensive than we could’ve imagined,” Kingsley says, his upbeat attitude clashing with the subject matter. “The _Atlunte_ ’s database wasn’t in tiptop condition, but we’ve pieced together a significant amount of information, including a series of S’Prenn transponder codes that will help us spot and identify their vessels from larger distances.

“We’ve also learned that an unusual nebula has developed near Station A-12. I’ll spare you the scientific details, mainly because we don’t have them, but this nebula is unlike any other. It is artificial, presumably created by an extra-dimensional species. Why it emerged there is anyone’s guess, but the biological substances found within proved to be extremely useful for the Altonoids. You still with me?”

“Go on,” Tony says.

“Thanks to the horrors of genetic meddling, these substances became the, ahem, Achilles heel of the powerful S’Prenn. Initially, the Altonoids tested their new bioweapon on prisoners of war they’d captured during earlier S’Prenn raids. It had a 100 percent efficiency rate at, well, seriously screwing up their mental faculties. Any contaminated S’Prenn became overly susceptible to outside stimuli. In fact, you could indoctrinate them, reprogram them, as it were, to do your bidding.”

Tony ponders the implications this news carries before saying, “This reminds me of the octatium the Altonoids experimented with years ago.”

“Yes, but octatium drove its victims crazy and turned them into vicious killers. This product, however, preserves the S’Prenn’s high intelligence while forcing them into absolute obedience, effectively brainwashing them. The Altonoids infected subject after subject, and before long they had amassed legions of S’Prenn soldiers and ships. As icing on the cake, they acquired in-depth knowledge of sophisticated S’Prenn technology.”

Rinckes cuts in. “That’s exactly why the S’Prenn withdrew from Federation-Altonoid affairs, only to make one hell of a surprise comeback. And it tells us why the Altonoids have become nigh invincible.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Kingsley says. “We’ll report this to the Federation Council. For the first time in four years, my dear Tony, we have options!”

Tony expresses what was tangible from the get-go. “It’s nice to have found the answers, but it changes little. We’re here now, aren’t we? Most of our friends and loved ones are dead, our homeworlds in Altonoid hands, the few survivors exiled to Klingon space.”

Neither the captain nor the doctor have anything to say to that.

Tony rubs the back of his neck, which has started to ache. “Don’t get me wrong. It is good news. But we have already lost too much, in my opinion.”

“It is understandable considering your recent loss—” Kingsley begins.

“It doesn’t bring anyone back.” Tony speaks in the same soft voice he used when reasoning with the Altonoid soldier holding a knife to his throat. “It won’t bring back my father.” Contrary to the doctor, Rinckes evades his gaze. “It won’t bring back Emily.”

“No, it won’t,” Kingsley admits. “But… I cannot stress this enough: her sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

“Her sacrifice may not have been needed at all,” Tony says, pausing his speech until the captain is man enough to return his piercing stare. “However, I apologize for my conduct on the bridge.”

Rinckes grunts. “You’re damned right about that.” He sucks in a breath and exhales through his teeth. “Believe me when I say I comprehend the emotions involved, but I can’t have one of my men,”—he stands up to emphasize his message—“especially my first officer, exhibiting this kind of behavior, under _any_ circumstances.”

“I hear you, Captain, and I am sorry. I don’t agree with your decision, but I shouldn’t have—”

“Whether or not you agree with me is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is this: Are you fit to perform your duties as first officer of the _Achilles_?”

Tony lets out a grave sigh and prepares to answer but isn’t given the chance.

“After much deliberation… we have concluded you are not.”

Kingsley nods his approval.

“As of this moment, you are relieved of duty,” Rinckes says, his expression unreadable.

Tony is willing to bet his own expression is far from unreadable. In a verdict one sentence long, his resolve suffers a crippling blow.

“Once we reach friendly territory, you will be court-martialed. Given the mitigating factors, we suspect you’ll be honorably discharged from Starfleet.”

Tony’s face is tingling and he begins to feel light-headed.

“Maybe, once you’ve regained control over your life and you’re ready for action again, reinstatement will be an option.”

“It’s for the best, Tony,” Kingsley says with a friendliness the captain lacks. “This must be the last thing you want to hear, but think it through: you’re going to need time to grieve. We will let you have that.”

“I… I don’t know how to respond to this,” Tony says.

“You don’t have to.”

Tony’s cheeks flush, and his uniform jacket suddenly feels too hot and a few sizes too small. “I don’t think I agree. Starfleet is my life. I have sacrificed absolutely everything for it.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t! You can’t possibly understand what I have given up. Threatening the captain at gunpoint is a serious misdemeanor, but the situation was extreme… You know I’m not like that, normally.”

Kingsley remains unyieldingly polite. “Which is exactly why it would be best for you to take it easy for a while.”

Tony is stumped, to say the least. “I don’t believe you guys.”

Rinckes is eager to put an end to this conversation. “The decision has been made. Your confinement to quarters is hereby cancelled, but with your rank privileges revoked, you will no longer be permitted to visit key areas.”

“We can go over the details later,” Kingsley hastens to add. “We’ll reach Klingon space in a few weeks anyway, so it’s not really that important right now.”

“Mister Blue, you are dismissed,” the captain says and he powers up his computer terminal, which instantly becomes engrossing enough for him to ignore the other two people in the room.

“Let me walk you to your quarters,” Kingsley says. Despite the doctor’s role in this verdict, his aspect is compassionate as he helps Tony to his feet and pats the young man’s upper arms as if he’s fluffing a pillow back into shape.

With legs made of lead, Tony follows the doctor, then halts before reaching the door. “One more thing,” he says, prompting Rinckes to look up from his computer. “Captain Duvivier would’ve gone back.”

Rinckes quickly refocuses on his terminal. That had to hurt. Kingsley cannot suppress a grin as he guides Tony out of the ready room and onto the bridge. Lieutenant Gibbs is waiting outside, poised for wrestling the doctor to the floor should the need arise. Kingsley waves him off and says, “I’ve got it from here.” After seeking approval from Tony through a brief exchange of glances, Gibbs retreats to his security console. The bridge crew has ceased their activities once again to gawk at their former XO, who gives them one last look and a strained smile before he and the doctor make a beeline for the nearest turbolift.

As soon as the turbolift doors have closed, Kingsley loses his cool. “So you’ve finally given him an excuse to dispose of you.” He runs his fingers through his short, red hair. “I had to talk like mad to dissuade him from throwing you in the brig and keeping you there till hell freezes over.”

Tony lets the doctor vent his frustration, and said doctor is more than happy to do so.

“Centuries ago we would’ve had you shot!” Kingsley continues. “The impending court martial won’t be a barrel of fun, but I’ll make sure the record shows you had the presence of mind of a dried-out cauliflower the moment you lifted that phaser.”

Tony leans back and stares at the carpet.

“Of course, your unique reputation will prevent them from making an example out of you. That combined with your sacrifices and losses means you’ll get that honorable discharge. So don’t worry about that, okay?”

The only reply Tony grants him is an absentminded nod.

* * *

**Near the Klingon border, USS _Achilles_ – June 30, 2386 – Stardate 63493.9**

Situated at the bow and sporting a set of windows covering the entire forward bulkhead, the mess hall offers a splendid panorama of whatever spectacle the _Achilles_ is facing. Even though at warp speed all you see is stardust flying by like a hi-res version of an ancient screensaver, it’s encouraging to know that a friendly port lies up ahead. The mess hall itself is modest in its simplicity; it comprises six beige tables with color-matched seats and a couple of wall-mounted replicators.

It’s reasonably quiet, which is why Tony Blue has chosen this late hour to have dinner here. He ignores the few people present, yet he’s aware they’re not ignoring him, halting their chatter whenever his eyes accidentally meet theirs. So he pretends that eating his meal requires his undivided attention. Occasionally, he shoots a glance through the windows. The view from here is usually better than the one from his quarters, which he is allowed to keep for the time being, and he has grown tired of eating alone. However, the stares burning into the part of his collar where his three rank pips used to be make him feel ill at ease.

Someone sits down across his table, and for an instant of foolishness, he feels joy and relief well up as he thinks it’s Emily, followed by disillusionment when it naturally turns out to be someone else. It’s Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs, who has brought a plate of inedible goop. Tony gives him and his questionable choice of nourishment a short look and then continues his meal.

“We’re nearly home,” Gibbs says. “Or at least, what should pass as home.”

Tony’s silence is almost audible.

Giving up is not the chief’s strongest suit. “We’ll be safe there at long last. No more sneaking around, constantly on the lookout, living with the lights dimmed. Maybe we’ll get to spend our R&R on whichever lush planet’s available. It’ll be nice to catch some sunrays.” Tony’s unwillingness to respond stagnates the one-sided conversation, so Gibbs drops his veil of faux optimism and replaces it with sincerity. “I’ve said it before, and I hate to sound like a broken record… but I’m real sorry about what happened.”

“Everybody’s sorry.” Tony takes another bite of pâté, robbed of its taste by his sullen mood.

“I’ve been replaying the events over and over in my head and I realize I haven’t been much help to you. I was the one who convinced you to leave Emily and Barton in the cargo bay. I didn’t protest the captain’s decision to beam us back. I even drew my weapon on you.”

“You did what every good officer would’ve done.” Tony puts down his utensils and meets the blond lieutenant’s gaze. “You wouldn’t be much of a security chief if you had let someone phaser the captain.”

A hint of amusement flickers across the chief’s contrite features. “True. Regardless, I feel responsible for what happened. I want you to know you have my sympathy and my apologies.”

“Thanks, but there’s no need to apologize. You did your job to the best of your abilities and as your former commanding officer I expected nothing less.”

This causes Gibbs to chuckle. “Very true. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, you can count on me.”

“Next time you could aim your phaser at the captain instead of me,” Tony says dryly.

Gibbs misses the joke because he’s looking out the window, his brow contorted into a puzzled frown. “We’ve dropped out of warp.” Indeed, the view has changed to a stationary field of stars.

Tony rises to his feet and wants to press his combadge to request clarification from the bridge but realizes in time he doesn’t have that privilege anymore.

Gibbs gets up too, to report to the bridge. “Don’t worry, Commander,” he says, winking at the “commander” part. “We’ll keep you informed.” And with that, the security chief leaves.

After a moment’s hesitation, Tony takes Gibbs’ dinner tray, places it on another table, and returns to his own table to finish his meal.

* * *

“Are you absolutely certain?” Captain Rinckes asks, double-checking his crew’s findings, which are displayed on the armrests of his command chair.

“Yes, sir, beyond a doubt,” the Andorian Lieutenant Kels says. “The border has been hermetically sealed. Nothing can slip through.”

Doctor Kingsley lets out a derisive snort. “We have a cloaking device. I’m sure Jon here has been able to fix it properly.”

Although Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell is concentrating on operating his engineering station, he has been listening to his colleagues. “Our cloak is back to spec, but that Altonoid sensor network is ridiculously sophisticated. It’s truly a work of art, a great mixture of Loïdian and S’Prenn engineering. Remarkable? Yes. Problematic? Also.”

“And they’re proud of it too,” Kels says, feeding commands into her science station. “They’ve made no attempt to hide it.” More and more sequential images of identical sensor arrays pop up on the viewscreen. “They’ve sealed off the entire Altonoid-Klingon border with millions of self-replicating detection sentries. Flying past them will not go unnoticed, and they’re armed to the teeth with S’Prenn weaponry.”

From the corner of his vision, the captain sees Lt. Gibbs enter the bridge. Nobody bothers to acknowledge his presence; they’re too busy dealing with this unwelcome news, as they should be.

“They don’t want anyone to go in or out,” Lt. Baxter says. “The only way to get back to Klingon space is by avoiding this border altogether, but who’s to say the Altonoids haven’t planted these sentries all around?”

Lt. Surtak weighs in with his opinion. “If we crossed through Tholian and Gorn space, for example, the detour would take at least four months, not to mention the extra risk involved.”

Requiring but a few seconds of deliberation, the captain comes up with a feasible plan, and he rises from his chair. “Commander Terrell, prepare a buoy with all the intel we’ve found on the S’Prenn-Altonoid collaboration. Rig the buoy to start transmitting into Klingon space exactly thirty hours from launch and set it to self-destruct when approached by any vessel.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Needless to say it will have to impart its message on all secure Federation and Klingon frequencies. Upon successful transmission, it should self-destruct after one week at most. Starfleet might be able to use it to transmit a reply.”

“Anything else, sir?” Terrell asks as if he prepares buoys with delicate, life-altering information every day between coffee breaks.

“That would be all, Commander,” Rinckes says. “Baxter, as soon as the buoy has been deployed, take us deeper into Altonoid space at maximum warp. As always, ensure our flight path is hard to trace.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Rinckes sits back down, content with his plan. “Seems like our mission hasn’t ended just yet.”

“Trapped behind enemy lines, sir,” Surtak adds.

“That’s a rather ghastly way of putting it,” Terrell says, distracted from his new project, if only for an instant.

“Is it?” Surtak arches an eyebrow and rotates his seat to address the crew. “I did not intend it to be ‘ghastly.’ I am simply stating facts. I do not believe our inability to cross the border is such an unfortunate development. We are fulfilling our mission by relaying our findings to the Federation, and by staying in Altonoid space we have ample opportunity for undertaking new assignments, which may be even more important than the one we have completed. Also, we should not forget we have a number of uninvestigated leads left to explore.”

“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant,” Rinckes says. “Terrell, what’s the status of our buoy?”

“You’ll have it in a couple of minutes, sir.”

With that settled, Rinckes presses the comm button on his right armrest. He has never been a fan of speechifying, but it comes with the job. He is yet to come to terms with this particular setback, so this speech will serve to encourage himself as much as the other souls on this vessel. Not a scrap of timidity is allowed to blot his authoritative timbre as he says, “All hands, this is the captain. The Altonoids have sealed the Altonoid-Klingon border. We cannot go through.”

His message can be heard all over the ship, from engineering to the crawlspaces, from the corridors to the crew quarters.

* * *

Tony Blue is still stabbing at his flavorless dinner when the captain’s announcement echoes through the mess hall.

“ _We’ve earned a substantial amount of shore leave, but we’re not done here yet. Our mission to find out why the S’Prenn have betrayed us has been a complete success, and it is ironclad evidence that this ship and her crew is a force to be reckoned with_.

“ _But as long as the Altonoids occupy our space, there will be no time for us to rest, no time for us to waver. We have been given the opportunity to make a difference once again, and we will grab it with both hands. With our skills, knowledge, and strength, we will head back into Altonoid territory, find a way to undo their hold on the S’Prenn, and turn the tide of this war!_ ”

Shipmates cluster together to discuss this sudden twist of fate. Some of them sound enthusiastic, others uneasy about the prospect of extending their dangerous sojourn in hostile territory. Tony just stares motionlessly at the equally motionless stars. As minutes drift by and his crewmates’ discussions fade into the routine of everyday life, he watches the ship reverse course and accelerate to high warp, turning its back on the prospect of a safe haven.

* * *

**Deeper into Altonoid space, USS _Achilles_ – July 8, 2386 – Stardate 63515.6**

Captain Stephan Rinckes travels the hallways of the _Achilles_ at a steady pace, his expression blank, as usual. Touring his ship, he instills the same respect as if he were barking orders on the bridge. Crewmembers who happen to pass by greet him immediately, and he returns the courtesy with a faint nod as he presses on.

He reaches his destination and pushes the call button on the LCARS display near the door.

“ _Who is it?_ ”

“Your captain.” Before long, the entrance whooshes open and Tony Blue appears in the doorway, giving him a level stare. “We need to talk,” Rinckes says. He enters the former XO’s quarters without invitation and notices the familiar marks of battle damage: dark patches smudging the bulkheads like life-sized Rorschach tests, frayed carpet and upholstery, the odd conduit and wiring creeping out from behind cover. Has no part of the ship been spared? Despite these inescapable blemishes, this living area has an orderly appearance, something he had not expected after reading Baxter’s report. Lost in thought, he walks over to the window and halts there. Tony takes refuge on the sofa and quietly waits for the captain to reveal the purpose of his visit.

“You won’t be facing that court martial any time soon,” Rinckes says to the stars. “We have picked up a reply from Starfleet. They have analyzed our data and were most pleased.” He anticipates a response from Tony, but he gets none. “And they have officially sanctioned our endeavor to try and win this war from the inside out.” He faces the reticent young man. “Which means you’re stuck with the _Achilles_ , whether you and I want that or not.”

Rinckes zeroes in on the chair opposite the sofa and seats himself. “After… lengthy talks with Doctor Kingsley, I have made the following decisions regarding our command structure.”

Tony tilts his head. He’s probably wondering why the captain would inform him of this in person.

“Erin Crow is now my new first officer. She has also been given an overdue promotion to the rank of commander. This renders the position of chief tactical officer wide open. A few good officers are available, but the doctor insisted on giving you a second chance.”

This surprises Tony even more. He straightens his back and is all ears.

“Your experience serving aboard starships and at Starfleet HQ as well as dealing with the Altonoids and S’Prenn is invaluable. According to the doctor, it would be foolish not to take advantage of your expertise.”

Tony rubs his chin. “Barely three weeks ago you were determined I wasn’t fit for duty, and now—”

“Now the situation has changed.”

“So… you’re reinstating me as a senior officer?”

“If you think you’re up for it.”

“I am, sir. You know I am.”

“Fine. As of tomorrow morning,”—Rinckes gets up, eager to leave—“you will be Lieutenant Tony Blue, chief tactical officer of the USS _Achilles_.”

Tony stands up too, albeit slower. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, don’t thank me,” Rinckes says, darkening his tone. “You’re being demoted two whole ranks—a fitting, if not somewhat lenient punishment for your misbehavior. And once we get back, be assured, you _will_ face that court martial.”

“Still, it beats being the only civilian on the ship.”

He takes a step closer to Tony. “If you screw this up, I will have you scrubbing waste reclamation units for the remainder of our mission. Consider yourself very lucky to be given this chance at redemption. Don’t you forget that.”

“I won’t,” Tony replies in a thin voice.

“Good.” Having made his point, Rinckes backs off and draws in a couple of deep breaths. While regaining his composure, he notices a table on which three pictures stand: one of Tony’s father, one of Emily, and one of Tony, his father, and Emily together in a sunny garden. Frozen in a moment of happiness, they all smile at him, unaware of what was to come. Seeing those pictures sends a lone shiver down his spine.

“That was all,” Rinckes says as he hurries for the exit and nearly trips over a chair. “You will receive your duty roster later today.” And with that, he leaves the new chief tactical officer to his musings.

* * *

**Behind enemy lines – July 9, 2386 – Stardate 63517.2**

Tony Blue shucks his pajamas, folds them, and places them on his neatly made-up bed. After a quick sonic shower, he walks over to the closet and rummages through his collection of uniforms. He chooses one, carries it to his bedroom, and belatedly realizes his mistake. He hangs the old uniform back and selects the freshly replicated one with the golden undershirt and cuff stripes instead of the command division red ones. The shower woke him up all right, but it has been many years since he wore gold—the same department color his wife used to wear.

As he puts on the appropriate uniform, his attention is drawn to the table bearing pictures of himself, Dad, and Emily. He can’t escape the feeling these shadows of the past are watching over him and his efforts to move on with his life, even though the persons represented in those pictures have been wrested from him one way or another.

Solemnly, he opens a cupboard drawer and retrieves a suede case, which contains three rank pips. Tony picks up two of them and attaches them to his collar. He glances at the pictures of his lost family once more and gives them a subdued, loving smile before stepping out of his quarters to report for duty.

* * *

As soon as the turbolift opens its doors, Lieutenant Tony Blue wishes he had taken the next one, because its sole passenger is none other than Commander Erin Crow. It’s too late to double back, so he enters the turbolift and indulges her in an impressive showdown of awkward silence. She’s a couple of inches shorter than him, but in her mind she must be six feet tall. Telepathy is not required to sense how much she enjoys having swapped roles with him.

“Bridge,” Tony says, prompting the turbolift to ascend. Despite his intention to avoid eye contact, he sneaks a peek at the new first officer.

As he suspected, the irony isn’t lost on her, and she flaunts a prideful smirk. “Lieutenant, gold just isn’t your color.”

Tony is sure two hours from now he’ll think of a fantastic retort.

The rest of the turbolift ride is equally unpleasant. Luckily, it’s over quickly and Tony lets his new superior exit the turbolift first. Once she’s out of the way, he enters the bridge with careful reluctance. The command center looks exactly the same as it did three weeks ago, though for some reason he had expected it to have changed during his absence.

Captain Rinckes emerges from his ready room and hesitates when he spots Tony, then greets him with a subtle bow of the head and sits down on the captain’s chair, right next to Commander Crow, who has claimed the XO’s chair.

Other officers welcome Tony to the bridge with nods and genuine smiles, for which he is grateful. He will have to stand for most of his shift—not an easy feat with his old injury, but he’ll manage. He slinks up to his new station behind the second officer’s chair. Its occupant, Doctor Kingsley, is too busy to notice him, which is for the best.

Soon, the novelty of his arrival wears off and everybody focuses on their tasks. He’s glad nobody is paying more than cursory attention to him as he attempts to acclimatize to his new function. With the _Achilles_ ’ weaponry and shields at his command, he must—

His tactical station starts beeping like a possessed alarm clock. Thanks to the alert, every person on the bridge gives him a wide-eyed stare and waits for him to react. He accesses his terminal with shaky fingers and interprets its flashing data. “Sensors are picking up a S’Prenn signature. It’s one of their vessels, apparently inoperable.”

“Inoperable?” Captain Rinckes asks.

“We’re too far away to get a better reading, but I can confirm it’s adrift and damaged.”

“It could be a trap,” Cmdr. Crow says, brandishing her trademarked worried scowl. “The Altonoids might have intercepted our transmissions with Starfleet.”

“Or it could be a lucky break,” Dr. Kingsley says.

Lieutenant Kels forces a laugh. “Really? Now you’re the optimist?”

“I’m serious. It could be an excellent opportunity for finding missing pieces of the S’Prenn puzzle. Imagine the dead specimens we could examine.”

“Making it all the more convenient,” Cmdr. Crow says, biting a fingernail, “and too much of a coincidence.”

“So it’s either a trap or a gift,” the doctor summarizes. “It’s up to you, Captain.”

The captain is in no particular rush. When he answers, he speaks with authority. “We’re not out here to cower and hide. Baxter, adjust course and increase speed to warp 8.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Go to yellow alert, but don’t raise the shields, Lieutenant Blue.” The captain shoots him a side-glance. “Not yet.”

“As you wish,” Tony says as the alert panels douse the bridge in a yellow hue.

Captain Rinckes leans forward in his chair and joins the crew in watching the viewscreen as the _Achilles_ alters course. “Let’s see what they’ve got in store for us.”

 

END OF PART II


End file.
